


bust in here with his life in your hands

by iooiu



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drowning, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Character, Torture, i have not seen a single sick fic for gon so im making up for it by writing this absolute mess, im actually so embarrassed right now, no beta we like kurapika probably will, part one ft; poisoned gon and very soft killua, part two ft; killua holding his organs in and very worried gon, separate warnings in the second chap :), someone please hit me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28537518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iooiu/pseuds/iooiu
Summary: Leorio doesn't get paid enough for this shit, really.or: Killua and Gon have a nasty habit of finding trouble, and Leorio's apartment is the one place they fall back to when they're forced to carry their dying best friend.
Relationships: Gon Freecs & Kurapika & Leorio Paladiknight & Killua Zoldyck, Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck
Comments: 50
Kudos: 143





	1. eleven minutes and nineteen seconds

Killua was used to being chained in uncomfortable positions, to the dull soreness that settled in his joints and the ache within his bones when his limbs were bound. He long since adjusted to the narrow, tight spaces and sharp metal shackles that would usually lock together his body, and he’s dislocated his joints enough times that the pain has become background noise. He’s flexible enough that any position he may have been trapped in becomes something he can sleep in.

So waking up with his arms clasped together by the wrists above him while he hung a foot off the ground was less than satisfactory, but overall unsurprising.

He yawned, lapping his tongue over the roof of his mouth in habit and almost gagging when he was met with dried bile and a sleep-ridden scent lingering behind his teeth. It was absolutely disgusting, and sticky. The lingering taste of decay coating his mouth like a sickly syrup. He collected a swab of everything he could with a roll of his tongue and spat it out, attempting to clear his mouth enough that he wouldn’t feel like dying every time he breathed. He looked around, eyes already adjusted and taking in bland, stony walls, a high roof that was riddled with overlapping chains and intricate patterns of interlacing pipes, as well as the body chained up across the room, parallel to him.

At least they didn’t separate him from Gon. He found the small antsy feeling in his chest that he didn’t even remember harbouring dissipate as the other stirred.

“Gon? You alright?” Killua asked, collecting another glob of spit around his tongue and emptying his mouth again.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” Clattering metal, and then a deep inhale followed by a low cough. “My mouth tastes gross though.”

That would make two of them.

“What about you?”

Killua fought back a scoff, because Gon should know better than to doubt Killua’s capabilities. He’s been through worse, and he’s been trained for situations exactly like this one. But he knew the worry, understood where it was coming from. Deep down, no matter how strong Gon fought to become, there was still a small inkling that would always fester in his gut, asking questions that would bring forth heavy doubt: Was he okay? Was he hurt? Could Killua protect him?

So he understood, and he grunted in affirmation before glancing at Gon’s locked limbs, slithering chains connected to heavyset shackles clamped around his wrists and ankles, keeping them bound and hanging a foot off the ground, much like him. 

“Hey, Gon, can you try to break these chains? I can't feel my aura, which probably means these are Nen suppressors.” Because Gon was the stronger of the two in terms of physical strength, though Killua was only lacking behind a little. (It helped ease his mind a little bit, because Gon was strong. Even without his Nen, he was strong.)

And right now Gon couldn’t tell the difference between normal chains and ones manipulated by Nen, even though it wouldn’t matter to him (the enemy didn’t know that though, and Killua didn’t know if this was an advantage or not).

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Killua watched as Gon strained his arms, legs curling beneath him as his core pulled and pulled and pulled at taunt metal. The chains groaned and rattled, and the tongue peeping out from Gon’s lips was replaced by gritted teeth. When it was obvious nothing was breaking, he let out a breath and relaxed back, the sound of clattering metal links echoing around them as he swayed.

“It’s no use. And without a ground support-”

“Yeah, I know. It’s harder. Guess whichever lucky bastard managed to catch us knew what they were doing.” Killua tested the shackle around his wrist, and found the same result; they weren’t budging. 

“Well, they seem to be normal metal. I wonder if my claws can cut it.”

“Do you think I could chew through it?”

They both stared at each other before bursting out in giggles, Killua at the other’s ridiculousness and Gon because… well, he didn’t actually know why, but Gon’s laughter always eased his mind, so he wasn’t complaining.

“Idiot, you can’t even reach it with your mouth.”

“Ah, I guess your right. Your claws. They would work though.”

“‘Course they would.” And to test his theory, Killua flexed his hands, feeling his muscles twitch and veins throb, giving way to razor-sharp bone breaking through dull nails. He stretched his hand as far as it could go, swiping as hard as he could against the metal of his wrists and already feeling a small nick form in the otherwise smooth surface.

“Yup, worked like a charm. Gimme’ a couple of hours and we’ll be busting outta’ here in no time.”

“But what am I supposed to do until then?” Gon pouted, glancing down at the tangled mess of chains climbing up from his ankles like coiled snakes. Kurapika would have fawned over these, he was sure of it.

“I don’t know. Talk to me.”

“About?”

“I don’t know, genius. You’re always the one who has something to say.” Killua snickered at Gon’s revealed tongue -- a childish gesture he was still able to pull -- before digging his claw back into the small nick as best he could.

“Okay, well, me and Alluka went out to get lunch the other day, while you were busy playing that game. Uhm, what was it called-”

“Legends of Wizards.”

“-yeah, and so Alluka came with me, and we actually stopped by that one bakery-”

“Cocoa Hearts?”

“-yeah! And they had this huge shaved-ice dessert because apparently, it was their thirtieth anniversary. So we got one that had wild berries in it, and it was actually _really_ good. But we couldn’t package any for you because-”

“Shaved ice would melt.”

“-Exactly. And so we were supposed to keep our outing a secret so you wouldn’t feel bad that we went without you-”

“So _that_ was why we went out last week?” Killua looked up to see Gon’s sheepish reaction, rolling his eyes when he bit his lip to fight back a big smile. “Idiot. I wouldn’t have been mad, ya’ know.”

“Yeah, I know. But still.”

“So you and Alluka have outings together now? A bit rude, don’t ya’ think.”

“Hey! What if I like Alluka’s company better than yours, huh? She’s way nicer than _you_ , anyway.”

“ _This_ is why I’m not nice to you,” Killua scoffed, grinning, “it gets to your head. Someone’s gotta keep the balance.”

“Meany.”

Killua laughed, and the door to their right opened.

Dull yellow light crept into the dark in long sickly beams, creating warped shadows against every small dent and crevice, dancing black tendrils sweeping over the room like the inky paintbrush of a manic painter. Killua squinted, letting his eyes adjust to the change in brightness and quickly angling his hands away to hide his little cutting job from view.

A figure approached, long and thin, resembling the very chains that wrapped around their limbs. His eyes were lidded, thin lips straight as he swept into the room with the grace of a shadow, footsteps inaudible.

Killua schooled his features until he knew he appeared as if carved from a statue, expression unmoving and eyes unfeeling. He could quickly tell where this situation was going, and to be honest he wasn’t quite feeling like getting the shit beaten out of him today. Alas, the universe never favoured him, and here he was, diving headfirst against his will into a very unfortunate scenario. He stifled a sigh. 

His mouth was still gross too. How life played him. He was going to treat himself to shaved-ice cream when this was over.

He exchanged a glance with Gon, pressing his lips together to keep from snorting when he saw the other licking his teeth in disgust, not even giving the stranger a second glance. He was feeling generous; maybe he’d treat Gon to something too.

“Oh, you’re both already awake. That’s a nice start,” he yawned slowly, licking his lips absent-mindedly before waving his left hand behind his ear. 

“Well, I’m gonna’ keep this short. I don’t want to be here just as much as you do.” The man started in a monotone voice that reminded Killua of his father. He really did sound bored. Killua could relate.

A few seconds passed in mutual silence, Killua assessing the man while the man eyed the two of them up and down.

“I’ve been hired to find the whereabouts of the Zoldyck weapon-” Illumi, the bastard, probably ran out of leads to follow, and hasn’t given up even after all these years. He’s taken to hiring back alley mercenaries now, what a loser, “-and retrieve it as well. My client is a… strickler on time, so you’ll understand why I don’t want to waste any.”

He droned on, and Killua chanced another glance at Gon. He knew he had nothing to worry about when their eyes met; both Alluka _and_ Nanika had grown to see Gon as another big brother, and vice versa in Gon’s case as well. It eased his heart, knowing the two most important people in his life cared for each other. Gon was willing to spill just as much info as Killua, and he knew he had nothing to worry about when Gon nodded his head with a grin. 

Gon opened his mouth to talk while Killua unsheathed a claw in the darkness of the shadows around his wrists.

“If you know anything about us, you’ll know we won’t say anything. This is pointless.” he started, tilting his head like he usually did when he assessed an enemy. Like a damn bird. It irked Killua to no end, but Gon did it anyway, probably just to piss him off most of the time. Killua used the cover of his echoing voice to dig into his metal shackles.

“I _do_ know all about you, but who doesn’t nowadays? Gon Freecss,” the man drawls onwards, “son of world-famous Ging Freeccs. And Killua Zoldyck, one of the elite assassins of the Zoldyck family.

“Became hunters at the age of twelve. Fought in the Chimera Extermination at fourteen. Started blacklist hunting at fifteen, and so on.”

As Killua cut, he could feel the small trickle of aura tickle his gut, a tiny, fickle thing that rolled around under his veins; too thin for lightning, but just enough to focus in his eyes as he darted his eyes around the man’s form.

Definitely a Nen user, if the long rope-like substance previously invisible clutched in his fist was anything to go by. Though he hid his aura well, Killua summed that the man was most likely a conjurer. He didn’t seem physically inclined in terms of strength, but then again, you could never fully judge someone based on looks alone. 

Gon wouldn’t be able to tell though.

Another shared glance, another nod. Confirmed Nen user; be careful.

“I’m doing exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do. Well, whatever,” the rope in his hands became visible all at once, and he watched Gon’s eyes snap towards it before darting away. “Where is the Zoldyck weapon? I’ll release you the moment you answer.”

Silence, and then a sigh.

“I _knew_ this wouldn’t be that easy,” he muttered in dull distaste, and turned to Killua, lazily brandishing his rope. It was starting to resemble a long whip, and he tightened his muscles before loosening them. Be prepared for the worst. It’ll hurt less if your anticipation is high.

“Killua Zoldyck. My client warned me about you.” When he walked he walked with a sort of boredom, eyes never sparking as he talked, and voice an unearthly even tone. Everything about this man was so dull. “You’re a breed of elite assassins, trained to endure unbelievable levels of pain easily. Quite a monster.”

A low chuckle, then silence, and the man’s thin lips straightened out again. 

“I’m not going to be getting anything out of you.”

“You would be correct.”

“You can see this, no?” He suddenly asked, tilting his long tendril of Nen and brandishing to the side. Instead of confirming it, he looked towards Gon, seeing him squint in the man’s seemingly empty fist. “You’ve got a lot of juice, kid; I’ll admit it, I’m impressed.”

Oh, this guy had no idea.

“And since you’re an elite assassin and all that, asking you will be pointless. Say, you don’t have a lot of connections,” he nodded his head back, eyes never leaving Killua’s, “so you won’t really mind if anything happened to him, right?”

Killua did not let the small sliver of icy dread coiling around his useless twisting energy in his chest make an appearance on his face. He rolled his eyes, glancing to the side in nonchalance and forcing his back to lose its tension.

“Do whatever you want with him. He’s just a colleague.”

The man hummed, straightening his neck and turning to face Killua with a low, barely perceivable sneer. Killua took a deep breath and closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable wash of pain. 

He heard it before he felt it, but after a few seconds of nothing, he opened his eyes to find himself untouched. His eyes instantly snapped to Gon without a thought and found his blinking blankly into space. One blink. Two. Then a small grimace before smoothing out his features and giving Killua a tiny smile.

It only served to coil the untouchable lighting within him tighter.

The man strode over to inspect his work, hand closing around Gon’s jaw to tilt his head to the side, eyes roving over the gash along his face, which stretched over his nose bridge and teetered off at the base of his head, right below his ear. It missed his eye by an inch.

Killua doesn’t think about how that choice might have deliberate. 

“Damn, you kids are tough.” He mumbled to himself, bringing his thumb up to dig past the split skin and into the exposed flesh, rubbing harshly against the vulnerable underside until small rivulets of blood leaked out and trailed down Gon’s face. Gon winced, eyes staring at nothing as the man finally let go and stepped back, tilting his head and gazing upon Gon like a painter would to their latest piece of artwork. Killua found himself harbouring the uncontrollable urge to kick him in the balls and then pull out his teeth.

“I’ll be back,” was all he supplied before walking out of the room and closing the door behind him, submerging the room back into grey darkness.

Realistically, Killua knew Gon’s pain tolerance was incredibly high, worryingly so sometimes. Killua was sure Gon was a masochist, but at the end of the day, his best friend seemed to be bred with enough mental fortitude to persevere through shit that almost anyone else would crumble under. 

(It might have something to do with how his moral compass is wack, but Killua didn’t really have the right to complain.)

These facts didn’t stop him from wanting to tear the man’s arms and legs off, though. The urge was there, a raging crackling lightning bolt that was a touch out of his reach at the moment.

The second those footsteps receded, Killua unsheathed his claws and began carving away at the metal shackles, digging into the small, almost undetectable nick in the metal while Gon spat out a glob of blood that trickled into his mouth.

“That guy wasn’t very nice.” He muttered past red iron, wrinkling his nose and spitting again.

“You’re telling me. Once we’re outta’ here I’ll beat the shit out of him.”

“Awe, Killua, you care!” Gon laughed, wincing again when the action stretched the long cut along his face. Even in the low lighting of the room, Killua could see how the wound looked raw and ragged, like a jagged crevice within stone. Red skin spread along the edges as if someone had doused boiling water across his face.

Gon wiped his cheek in his shoulder, whining when it smeared blood over his tank top, and Killua continued to cut.

. . .

The next time the man entered the room, Killua was halfway through the cuff, Gon’s wound was less inflamed, and the man was not alone.

The second person was heavy set, pulling behind him a large heavy box, if the way it dragged against the floor was anything to go by. The man stopped in front of Gon, eyeing his face while the second dropped the box in the middle of the room, lumbering away and out of sight.

“Before we move on, did you guys talk anything over? Wanna’ hand over the information?”

“Just shut _up,_ dude,” Killua droned, “your voice hurts my heart.”

Across from him Gon snickered, and the man turned to lazily stare at him, thin lips turned down into a sneer.

“Very cocky,” he drawled, fist currently empty as he strode across the room to stand directly before him. He was tall, almost as tall as Killua, but his eyesight still levelled around Killua’s nose because he was hung up at the moment, and it gave Killua the privilege of looking down at him with a shallow smirk.

“I’m not gonna’ get anything outta’ you.” He sighed, resigned, and turned another lazy arc back around the room.

“A fact.” Killua’s smirk broadened before flattening when he went over to start fiddling with Gon’s chains.

“But your colleague, or whatever, might give me something. Eh, Freecss, say; how long can you hold your breath?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Gon spat, and was promptly dropped to the floor. 

With his limbs still locked together, he didn’t have much leeway to move, but it didn’t stop him from immediately jumping up despite his ankles being bound by thick shackles. His attempts at fighting back proved futile when all the man did was sidestep him and clamp a large hand around his nape, kicking the back of his legs and letting his knees clatter to the floor. Killua fought back a wince.

He dragged him forward, settling before the big box and uncovering the lid.

The smell of iron and heavy salt hit the air.

The box was full to the brim with salt water.

“Last chance,” The guy offered as if it was a choice. He met Killua’s eyes, and Killua averted them to the side in what he hoped would be perceived as dispassionate.

“Do whatever you want with him. He’s not important.”

“Hm, I guess you’re right.”

Gon's inhale was cut short when the man dunked his head under the water, and Killua started counting. 

Eleven minutes and nineteen seconds. That was Gon’s longest record underwater; they had actually competed while staying at Whale Island for a quick visit. Though Killua’s own record was nothing to laugh about, he had ended up falling short by a solid six seconds, and Gon never failed to gloat about it.

“My bet’s three minutes,” the man started, “you’re no marine hunter. I think so, anyway.”

Killua kept a cautious eye on Gon, watching how his body relaxed under the man's hold, small bubbles occasionally breaching the opaque surface. 

“But then again, who knows. You kids are really something.” He looked up at Killua, “Everyone’s got a limit, though.”

Gon did not move, and Killua counted a minute.

Eight more pass in tense silence before Gon’s shoulders start quivering, and Killua realizes he probably didn’t take a deep enough breath to last him his longest. The man lets out a low whistle, seemingly impressed by Gon’s lung capacity, but Killua couldn't find it in him to register anything past the fact that Gon was still being held underwater, with the man giving no indication of letting up anytime soon. His hold was unrelenting, even as Gon began to wreathe beneath him. It made Killua’s blood boil, and that unreachable electricity in his stomach twisted dangerously.

Killua feverishly counted nine minutes before the man pulled Gon’s nape, and with it Gon’s head, out of the water, idly watching him as he heaved in a large breath, coughing and spitting out water as it fell into his mouth and nose, eyes already red-rimmed. His wound looked raw.

Salt water. He internally cursed.

Gon registered the head start this time, drawing in a deep, albeit wet, breath before the man -- who Killua was going to personally _maul_ \-- plunged him in once more. 

“Well, anything to spill? I promised to stop the moment you do.”

“What makes you think I give a damn.”

“Fair enough.”

Killua counted eleven minutes in his head, watching as tension gathered in Gon’s shoulders by the time he was five seconds into the twelfth minute. Five more passed before they started shaking, bubbled erupting from around his hairline as he tried bucking up against the man’s iron-hard grip, fruitlessly fighting to get out of the water.

Five more seconds. The man didn’t look like he was going to pull him out. Pull him out, dammit, pull him _out._ Pull him out. He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe. Pull him out. Pull _him out._ He’s drowning. Oh God, he’s drowning-

“If he really _does_ mean nothing to you, I think I’ll kill him. Imagine the headlines; World-Renowned Gon Freecss... drowned to death.”

Killua glared at Gon’s thrashing body, violent ripples in the milky water spilling over the sides. He grits his teeth behind closed lips and unconsciously tested against his bounds as he came up to thirty.

“I doubt Ging would notice for a while. He seems to be off doing stuff all the time-” he’s absolutely right “-but the media will be in an uproar. You know what? Maybe he _will_ notice. You guys are pretty famous.”

Gon’s head knocked back uselessly, choking on fucking _salt water_ and fighting to break free. But Killua could see the weakening struggle, the lack of bubbles.

“Of course,” the man continued, unperturbed, “I’ll have to lay low for a while afterwards-”

“Let him up!” Killua finally snapped, eyes glaring at the hand squeezing fingerprint bruises into Gon’s nape, “He can’t breathe.”

He pulled Gon up with ease, a lilt to his thin lips while they both watched Gon cough up water from his chest; a wet clogged sound that made Killua want to wince.

He took a shuddering breath, blinking rapidly against the endless trickles of water running down his face, blearily looking around to find Killua’s gaze before giving him a small smile.

Killua was torn between wanting to smack him and hug him.

“Where’s the weapon my client is looking for?”

“Drown me instead,” Killua growled, pulling at taunt chains.

The man gave him a tight-lipped sigh before dunking Gon once more, and Killua choked back a curse.

“Oi, I told you to do it to me instead.” 

“I’m well aware, Zoldyck. But you’re an assassin, drowning you would be useless.” He pushed harder, and Gon shuddered beneath the thick, long fingers pressing hard into the soft skin of his neck.

“Quit it, asshole. You _know_ you’re not gonna’ get any information from him.” Killua ground out.

“I know,” the man sighed, unsurprised, “but personally, I always hated Freecss.” He pushed hard again until the edge of the box dug into Gon’s throat. “Too damn happy.”

“ _Asshole.”_ Killua seethed, counting to eight minutes and five seconds before Gon was pulled out again. This time he was only given a few moments to find the difference between air and water before he was plunged back in.

“Stop it.”

“You’re not gonna’ get anything.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“I will.”

“Drown me instead.”

“You can’t drown him.”

“You can’t”

“ _Stop_.”

Killua spat out guarded thoughts almost mindlessly, the other half of his brain running his sharpened nails into metal, sloppily scraping at the growing cut in his cuffs. Desperate to break them. Gon was strong, he could hold out for a long time. But he was still human, and still had a limit. He needed to fucking breathe. 

All Killua needed to do was free one fist. _One damn fist._ And then he could bust the both of them out of here.

He couldn’t do it fast enough, though, and Gon kept choking on fucking _salt_ water before him.

. . .

It was when Gon started growing deathly still at thirty seconds (how long have they been at this shit?) did the man finally toss him to the ground, patting his wet hand on the thigh of his pants as he leaned over to shove Gon’s jaw shut against the top of his mouth with his foot, effectively letting his gurgled cough get stuck behind his teeth. He kicked forward for good measure, and he spasmed on a choked rasp, curling up much as his shackled arms would let him.

Killua breathed a sigh of relief, glaring at the man as he exited the room without another word, shutting the heavy set door behind him again. Killua barely waited until the footsteps retreated before he quickly turned to Gon -- his best friend who he would _kill_ for, though he’d never admit it out loud -- with wide eyes, assessing any damage as best as he could from his vantage point.

“Gon?”

“It’s. Fine.” He croaked, clearly _not fine_ , and stayed curled on the floor as he let out the occasional cough to clear his throat. Killua dug into the metal harder, internally cursing when Gon’s breathing didn’t regulate as smoothly as he’d hoped. 

“Bullshit. When we get out of this shit I’m punting your ass to Yorknew.”

“But I. Didn’t even. _Do_ anything.” Good Lord, his voice sounded terrible.

“For lying to my face, idiot. Did you inhale any water?”

No response, except for another wet cough.

“ _Gon_.”

“A little.”

“Asshole.” Killua spat, digging his nails deeper deeper _deeper._ They needed to get out. He didn’t know the exact consequences of inhaling salt water, other than the fact that it makes breathing harder and the throat feel raw. He looked pale in the grey darkness, freckles sticking out starkly against his usually vibrant caramel skin. Was that normal? Did lack of oxygen make people pale? Had the water been something else, some different chemical? It didn’t smell any different, but it certainly didn’t _look_ like salt water. It was too opaque, too cloudy.

And as he averted his gaze back into the rippling murky liquid, he was suddenly hit hard with his own ignorance. Poison. The water could have been poisoned, or been mixed in with some dangerous toxins. It would explain the weird foggy appearance of it. He didn’t even take into _account_ if the damn water was poisoned. Was Gon shivering? Spasms? If he would just let himself be vulnerable about his pain for once in his _damn life._

(Killua was such a fucking hypocrite.)

After a terse couple of seconds, Gon spoke.

“Killua?”

“Hm?”

“It’s really cold here.”

 _Shit. Oh God. Oh fuck._ Shit.

“Remember when you told me you had no idea what snow was?”

“Yeah. Didn’t realize. It would. Be. So _cold_.”

“Right, well, that’s because you’re born on a tropical island. You’ll feel cold anywhere.” Killua joked instead, taking slight comfort in Gon’s rattling laughter.

“Ruh-right. Right.” Gon chattered. Killua tugged experimentally, dislocating his finger to measure out how much more metal he had left.

Half a finger.

It seemed like too much.

“Gon.”

“Hm?”

“Talk to me.”

“Don’ worry. Killua.” That reply was too breathless for his liking. “I’m not sleepy.”

The idiot knew him too well.

“It’s for me.”

“Oh. ‘Kay then.

“Alluka. Gave me. A bracelet. Yesterday. Was all green. And really thick. Was too big. For my wrist.”

“So you put it on your ankle. I saw.”

Gon huffed something that might have passed for a chuckle, and though it sounded like a gurgling tar pit, it unwound Killua’s chest just a little bit. Gon shuddered, and his next short inhale hitched, and Killua carved faster. 

“My eyes. Feel kinda’. Puffy.”

“I thought you swam in the ocean as a kid?”

“Did. But it never. Felt like _this_.”

_Shit._

“It must be dirty or something.”

A hum, which resembled a thrumming low tone filtering through a broken record. Scratchy and barely there. 

Quarter of a finger. 

“Killua?”

“Yes.”

“You. Have one. On your ankle. Too?”

He smiled, albeit a bit strained.

“Nah. Alluka got me new earrings.”

“You’re. So weird. Two piercings on one ear. None on the other.”

His hiccups were receding, and Killua didn’t know if this was a good thing or not.

“It’s called fashion. You wouldn't know.”

“Would too. ‘Got an ankle bracelet.”

“That hardly counts.”

This quarter finger length seemed to stretch on forever.

“Gon, what else hurts?”

“Nothin’.”

“I will _punt you--_ ”

A short cough.

“Uh, my face.”

“And?”

“My knees.”

“What did he do to your knees?”

“I dunno’. But you asked.”

“Is it--”

The door opened, and Killua barely had time to angle his fingers so they disappeared into the shadows now cascading past every small dip and crevice. He let out a quiet curse under his breath.

“Sorry to leave you guys like that. Had to take a call.”

Killua cut as fast as the silence permitted, even if it meant watching the man slither over to Gon’s shuddering body, his expression still a dull lacklustre of boredom.

“Wow, you’re still at it. I’m impressed, kid. This stuff is supposed to be fast-acting.”

It _was_ poison.

“Well, whatever. I suppose I can still use this. Oh, wait,” The man frowned, “I can’t have your arms tied up like that.”

The man bent down, pocketing what looked suspiciously like pliers -- Killua didn’t dwell on them -- and instead took out a set of jingling keys. Killua carved faster as the echoing clink of metal on metal masked his actions. Gon’s shackles came undone, and the man moved to flip him on his chest, probably to trap his arm behind his back and immobilize him.

Gon was faster, and one swipe up had the man staggering back, clutching his bloody nose.

“Wha- you’re just like what everyone says about you, ya’ know?” He spoke, a nasal lilt to his dull words, and Killua grinned. “A damn monster.”

This guy literally had no idea.

The man conjured his whip so it was visible even to Gon, who though continued to be wracked with shivers, got into a defensive stance, puffy eyes squinting.

The man lashed out first, missing Gon by an inch, getting another punch to the man’s face in retaliation, and a loud crack echoed up into the swirling interlocking pipelines above. The man sneered past slick ruby lips, pacing back to create distance and gingerly touched his now crooked nose. It was definitely broken.

Gon’s wheezing breaths could be heard in every corner of the room, and though his form didn’t waver, Killua could see the quake in his shoulder, the quiver of his lips.

They were turning a deathly pale color.

The man angled his next strike, the tail end catching behind Gon’s left leg just as he made to leap away. With a harsh pull he was down on one knee, and the next second he was clutching his chest and choking on violent coughs.

Shuddering, unstable and unsteady; Gon fell to ground, and the last piece of metal broke.

Killua felt the moment the Nen repulsion circuit cut, and he wasted no time in tearing his arm free and summoning his energy -- hungry, bloodthirsty _lightning_ \-- without hesitation. In the split second the room charged up and hummed the life, the next was filled with the scent of charred flesh as the man’s whip dematerialized alongside its fallen conjurer.

Killua broke through the last chain with the ease of Ten, and rushed down to Gon without sparring the sizzled corps (that asshole deserved far worse, in his opinion) a second glance. He knelt by his friend’s side, falling down to his knees to bring Gon up.

“Hey, you okay? And if you say yes I _will_ punch you.”

Gon’s mouth slowly clicked shut, and Killua surveyed the damage using the greyscale yellow light filtering from outside the door.

True to his word, Gon’s knees were an ugly black and blue color, a swirling mix of shadowy watercolor painting caramel skin around his joint. After a thought, Killua checked his elbows and fingers and found the same result. His laboured breathing brought Killua’s attention back up, giving the impression of his throat constricting while gurgling past a wet towel to draw oxygen; basically, it sounded like shit.

Killua had to get them the fuck _out_ of there.

“Gon. I’m gonna’ move you, okay?”

“Mm, KIllua, I don’t think my legs are working.”

“That’s why I’m carrying you, idiot.”

“Oh,” And he sincerely sounded so awed at the prospect, so winded with his glassy eyes, like Killua was performing a miracle, that he found himself holding back a stupidly sweet (very soft and tender) smile insistently tugging at his thin lips. 

He bent down to help Gon sit somewhat straight, gathering him up under the legs and instructing him to wrap his arms around Killua’s neck. He tried, of course, but his energy was depleting fast, and all he could manage was laying his limbs over Killua’s shoulders.

Chest to chest Killua could feel his ribcage rattle with each inhale, the echoes of his rasping lungs vibrating through his own body. He held Gon tighter, one hand coming up to support his lower back. It helped that Gon was shorter than him and was similar in stature, and for once he thanked Ging for his shitty genes.

He summoned up Godspeed and ran.

. . .

Killua wasn’t going to waste time going to a hospital when he had his own connections that worked much more efficiently (Leorio, who they had been visiting while they stayed at a hotel nearby anyway). He had precariously sucked a mouthful of the water before dashing off, weaving through the seemingly endless halls that made up the structure they were held in before breaking through and running straight into the city. 

The whole thing took ten minutes (ten minutes too much), and at that point he didn’t care if he broke Leorio’s hinges, practically flying in through the open window intently focussed on the static rise and fall of Gon’s chest.

He crashed into the living room, sending papers flying around in his wake and startling the man who had been working on them. Killua paid no mind to the mess and instead deactivated his hatsu, running into Leorio’s room to drop Gon into bed. 

“K-Killua?” Leorio gasped, standing up to take in the sight before him; Killua’s wild hair to match his wild eyes, loose reddening around his wrists as he clung to Gon (wet and shivering and fighting to draw a fucking breath).

Instead of answering him, he lay Gon down as gently as he could, racing to the kitchen next to grab a glass and spit out the foul-tasting water. He whirled around to Leorio, who was still in shock at being bombarded in the dead of night, and glared at him.

“He’s been poisoned. I need you to help him, _fast_.” Killua ground out, briskly walking up to Leorio with stinging eyes and a glass full of murky death water. 

Please, please help me protect him.

Leorio was a Medic Hunter, probably the best the Association had, and years of studying and living every day helping people in dire situations honed a skill within him. It took a total of two seconds before the man’s eyes hardened, and he nodded, motioning for Killua to follow him as he made his way to his study.

“Is that water the--”

“The poison, yeah. I know you have that weird stuff--”

“That counterattacks toxin, yeah.” He was already pulling out several small glass beakers from the high shelves across from his desk, rummaging through his many drawers and cabinets as he talked.

“Though Killua, if this thing isn’t a toxin or toxin-based, it won’t work.”

Killua’s chest felt awfully tight.

“The plant we harvested this from creates fast-acting antibodies that temporarily counter any toxin so it can slowly build a tolerance to it; an added blueprint. But if it’s not a toxin or bacteria-based it’ll…

“Well, it won’t work.”

“Just,” Killua breathed, exhaling long to calm his rapid heartbeat, “do it. It’s better than nothing.”

Leorio looked at him a bit longer before nodding, using a dropper to suck up the salt water in careful measurements before, drop by drop, he mixed the water with a thick, translucent liquid in a larger cup. The two of them waited with bated breath as the solution swirled around Leorio’s spoon, the thick consistency easily overtaking the cloudy droplets of the damn poison.

When two minutes passed Leorio instructed him to wake Gon while he fetched the thermometer.

“If this works, he’ll start burning up.”

(He wondered how many times Leorio brought someone back from the brink of death in order to act so calm.

He doesn’t think about what happened last month.)

Killua nodded, bolting over to Gon’s side where he lay motionless in Leorio’s bare bed. He swallowed, thickly, stopping at the foot of the bed and fighting off the heat that festered between his eyes and behind his nose. Refused to let the rock in his throat affect his speech. He needed to be strong. He had to be.

“Hey, Gon,” he gently pulled Gon up to support his chest, one hand circling over behind his shoulder while the other brushed across his hairline. “Gon, I need you to talk to me.”

“Don’ worry Killua,” Gon whispered, eyes still closed, “Not even ‘little bit sleepy.”

He sounded so tired.

He commended the effort anyway.

“I believe you. But I need you to drink something for me.”

At this Gon shuddered, slowly shaking his head, chapped lips pursed.

“‘M not thirsty. No thanks.”

“I _promise_ it’s not salt water.”

“Kih-Killua. My chest was full of water.”

“I know, okay? But this’ll be good for you.”

Gon murmured something under his breath but didn’t complain further, and Leorio soon entered the room with a glass of the thick liquid and a thermometer. 

“Even if he drinks a little, it’ll work. But the more he drinks, the faster it’ll process.”

“Okay. Gon? Here, I’m gonna’ lean you on my shoulder, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good, now drink what I’m giving you.”

With eyes still closed, Gon nodded.

Leorio gently pressed the glass forward, tipping its content into Gon’s ajar mouth and coaxing him to swallow shallow sips. Halfway through he tilted his head away, and Leorio deemed it sufficient enough, giving the thermometer to Killua with a look of recognition in his eyes.

“I’m gonna’ get a towel ready. Make sure this stays under his tongue.”

Killua nodded.

“If he starts coughing, let him cough. It’ll help clear up his throat and chest.”

Killua nodded.

“If his temperature rises within the next half hour, we know that the solution worked. I’ll prepare something else just in case that happens. I don’t think any hospital will have anything that I don’t.”

Killua nodded.

Leorio sighed, and left the room.

Killua turned back to Gon, slipping the thermometer in his mouth.

“Gon, I need you to lift your tongue.”

“Mm, what ihs itch.?” Gon mumbled past the device,

“My finger.”

“Eww, _Kiuah_.”

“I’m joking, dummy. It’s just a thermometer.”

“Oh,” A pause where Gon adjusted his tongue. “Um shorry Kiuah.”

“For what.”

“Gettin’ shick.”

“Idiot.” Killua huffed, gently shuffling his hold on the other’s shoulders before nudging Gon’s head back onto his shoulder, soft tufts of dark hair tickling his jaw. “It’s not even your fault. You’re sorry for not having poison immunity?”

“I wash poishoned?” God, he sounded delirious. 

“Stop talking, the thermometer won’t work then. And yeah, you were; the salt water. The bastard made you inhale it too.”

Gon twitched beneath his arm, content with sinking into Killua’s embrace. The thermometer numbers were threateningly idle, and it made his stomach clench.

“I’m impressed you managed to last so long.” he started instead, giving Gon’s shoulder a squeeze, “Drowning is tough. I’m glad you and your stupid ass came from Whale Island.

“Oh, Leorio’s here too. We’re back at his apartment right now. He’s the one who gave you that drink. It smelled sour, was it sour? You can tell me later, not _now,_ dummy. But yeah, he’s in full doctor mode.”

Gon’s shoulder quivered under his hand, and he couldn’t determine if it was a laugh or a shudder.

Killua talked quietly to pass the time, each second as suffocatingly unchanging as the last. Gon didn’t move, didn’t speak past the thermometer, but the rise and fall of his chest, as sporadic as it was, ease his mind a little bit,

The thermometer beeped, and Killua checked the time. Thirty minutes exactly. He closed his eyes, held his breath, pulled the thermometer out and dared to peak at the digital numbers on the small screen.

It was higher by half a degree.

Killua breathed, and slotted the thermometer back into Gon’s mouth.

“Hey, looks like it’s working. You’re lucky you have connections, Freecss.”

Gon hummed a raspy, sluggish sound that reminded Killua of a static phone connection. The door finally opened, and as Leorio walked inside with a bowl full of water he couldn’t help but notice how his brow was shining with sweat.

“I got the towel and cleaned up a bit. How’s he doing?”

“I think it’s working. His temperature bumped up by a half a degree.”

Leorio nodded and checked once again after another few minutes of tidying up his own room and taking out a few extra blankets.

“Okay, it bumped to a whole degree. I think we’re good.” He sighed and handed the bowl and towel to Killua. “I suggest cleaning him off first. You too. I’m going to give Kurapika a call.”

“Got it, old man.”

Leorio huffed lightheartedly and exited the room, most likely to provide a small semblance of space -- he couldn’t believe that guy could read him so well -- and call his roommate. Killua felt kind of bad, kicking him out without uttering a word, especially when it was obvious that he was worried as well, but right now Killua’s mind was preoccupied with one sole person. 

He’d make it up to Leorio later.

Killua heard the door shut and forced his back to loosen, slipping away from Gon (despite his pathetic crackling whine) to go and fill the bathtub.

The bathroom was thankfully connected to Leorio’s room by a sliding door, and he locked the main entrance that led to the hallway before moving to twist the separate temperature knobs, testing the water until it became a moderately warm heat. Once satisfied, he plugged the drain and made his way back to Gon.

“Hey, can you stand for me?”

Though the thermometer was now perched on one of the two side desks, Gon still didn’t reply, simply shaking his head with determination shining through his obvious fatigue. The bruises discoloring his joints looked even darker underneath the bright bedroom lights, and he watched as the muscles in Gon’s legs strained to support him.

It wasn’t going to happen.

“Wow, hey, just hold onto me, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

“No, _no,_ Gon, you’re not gonna’ be able to do it on your own.” He tried, but Killua should know by now that saying something like that only makes Gon fight harder to prove him wrong. And fight he did. He managed two measly steps before collapsing beside him. Killua thanked his training for making his reflexes as fast as they were and quickly grabbed hold of Gon’s upper arm.

“Stupid.” He muttered, and together they ambled their way to the bathroom, where Killua set Gon down on the closed toilet seat. 

“Okay, strip down if you can,” Killua instructed, moving away to close the running tap and checking the water again. Adequate. “I’m going to get us some clean clothes.”

Another mumble, more tired than anything. When Killua returned with a set of Leorio’s clothes that Gon would most likely drown in, he found the other struggling to lift his shirt over his arms. 

“Ah, it was probably one of those paralysis ones,” Killua muttered, settling down the clothes and helping Gon maneuver out of his dirty tank top. Once it joined the pants on the ground, Killua nudged Gon with his knee and managed to get him to slip into the water.

“You probably feel gross right now. I always find salt water feels sticky. Especially _poisoned_ saltwater.” He mused, reaching over to grab a towel. He dabbed it with soap and set to work scrubbing away at caramel skin, being mindful of the scabbing cut over Gon’s face. He brushed long smooth strokes across lean muscles, wiping away grimy sweat and dirt around his neck and shoulder, smoothing over his brow.

Killua talked because Gon couldn’t, and Gon hummed whenever it was appropriate, clearly enjoying the warm water while Killua scrubbed at his scalp with nimble fingers. He was probably seconds away from falling asleep, and Killua quickly rinsed him off. He ran and grabbed the thermometer from the desk and slotted it into his mouth.

Two degrees warmer. Thank God.

He helped him into Leorio’s clothes, folding the ankles up and tightening the drawstring while Gon wavered in place, yawning quietly into his shoulder and blearily trying not to fall.

“It’s like I’m taking care of a little kid.” He joked, and Gon, as expected, gave a low hum in reply. 

It was only after Killua tucked Gon back under the blankets did he try to talk again, fingers catching Killua’s as he moved away. He was shivering, even underneath the two thick blankets Killua draped over him.

“I’m going to talk to Leorio, okay? I know you can’t talk right now, but don’t worry. I’m coming back. I’m coming back. I need to get bandages for your face and take a shower.”

When Killua gently closed the door, he let out a slow exhale, walking down the hall to be met with an anxious, jittery Leorio hazardously stacking and restacking his papers. When he spotted Killua he jumped up.

“So?”

“ _So,_ he’s fine. Tired. Can’t move his muscles for now.” H explained after a second, rubbing his nape and stretching his neck to one side before meeting Leorio’s gaze again. “Do you have any bandages and cream?”

The older man let out a breath, adjusting his glasses with his thumb before ambling over into the kitchen (the weirdo kept everything in his kitchen), coming back with a first aid kit probably better stacked than the regular hospital ones.

“Where’s Kurapika?” he asked after a thought, taking the box from him.

“Won’t be able to get back until tomorrow morning. He said he’d pick up some food on the way. You _are_ staying tonight, right?”

The way he phrased it and the look he was giving him would give Killua little choice. Luckily Killua wasn’t inclined to disagree.

“Yeah. We’ve claimed your room, sorry ‘bout that.”

“No you’re not. Well, whatever. I’m just glad he’s getting better. You guys seem to be magnets for trouble. Don’t think I forgot when Gon dragged you in here while you were holding your organs in.” Leorio glared at him suddenly, arms crossed across his chest. Killua had enough decency to look sheepish. “Do you guys take turns carrying each other around half dead? You’re gonna’ give me a heart attack one day, I swear.”

But the way Leorio said it, with a soft lilt to his tone and eyes that gazed down at Killua with something akin to fondness, made Killua’s ears heat up. He swerved around and stomped back to Leorio’s room, cursing him for barging into Killua’s ‘I care about these people’ circle without permission.

. . .

“Kih-Killua.” Gon chattered hoarsely, trembling fingers barely pawing at Killau’s wrist before collapsing. It was a miracle he was able to move at all. What a monster.

“What is it?”

“It’s cold.”

Killua frowned, resting the back of his hand on Gon’s forehead to feel scalding skin come in contact with his own flesh. He sighed, finishing the last clip to the winding gauze bandage wrapping around his head, across his nose bridge and spreading over the cut below his eye down to the base of his jaw. He packed away the dressing and supplies, pushing the half-open box to the cluttered bedside table before moving to readjust Gon’s shaking arms.

“It’ll only last until you fall asleep.”

“Mm.” Still, when he moved, feverish fingers weakly brushed his own. He turned to remove the warming towel on Gon’s forehead, dipping it in the cool before placing it back on.

“I’m just changing. I promise I’ll be back.”

“Pruh-promise?”

“Mhmm. I’m even staying in the room.”

Killua’s only ever seen the luxury of Sick Gon once before, back when Gon saw his first snowfall. He had literally jumped out of the house with nothing but a t-shirt and shorts to greet the fluffy white powder before Killua could wrestle him into a thicker sweater. Gon had been so cold that he hadn’t been able to stop his teeth from chattering even after an hour of warming up back inside, and had caught a fever for his foolishness.

It had only lasted two days, barely even one, really. But during that time Gon took to clinging to Killua like a lifeline, childish pout placed in chapped lips as his eyes glazed over with mild delirium. Regression was the best way to put it, because he acted like a needy child in desperate _need_ of every ounce of Killua’s attention. It was kind of endearing, to be honest, and he had indulged because it had only lasted for one day in the seven and a half years they knew each other.

These circumstances were less than ideal, and Killua would have rather never seen Gon’s current predicament (so vulnerable, small, unable to do anything; helpless) than see him in such a sorry state. But he couldn’t fight back the stupidly soft smile making itself known on his lips as he heard Gon whine oh so quietly while he changed into Leorio’s extra clothes (he was catching up to him, in terms of height. Just a few more inches. Unfortunately those few inches forced him to roll up his pant legs so they wouldn’t snag at his toes).

“I’m here, I’m here. You big baby.” he cooed teasingly, sliding under the almost uncomfortably warm atmosphere beneath the two thick blankets wrapped around them. “Didn’t even go anywhere.”

Gon was twitching, shivers wracking his bones while his body fought off whatever evil toxin was in his system. Killua reached over to rest on his side, drawing his best friend closer until he fit against him, tucked beneath his chin and trembling body warming him through the thin cotton of their shirts.

Usually, Gon would have thrown his limbs all over him, but his body wasn’t functioning to his command, and so he lay limp against Killua’s hold, face unpressured in the small space at the base of his throat.

“Killuah?” he whispered against pale skin, and Killua hummed in reply, rubbing smooth patterns along Gon’s shaking shaking shaking arms, up and down and up to his shoulder and down to his wrist. Tracing invisible constellations in his heated skin.

“‘S Leorio…”

“Yeah, he’s fine. You’re actually lucky he’s not mad right now.”

“‘S’not my fault. You _said._ ”

“I know, and it’s _not_. No apologies allowed, understood?”

“Yeah.”

Killua hummed again. Moving his rubbing hand up to Gon’s neck before sliding it back to stroke soft baby hairs at his nape, gingerly ghosting over fingerprint-shaped bruises embedded in the tender skin.

“Go to sleep, Gon.” Killua sighed, letting his hand rest loosely in Gon’s still-moist hair, an inch from his burning scalp.

“Can’t. Too cold.”

“I’m warming you up.”

“Killua, take it _off_.” Gon whined, and Killua sighed again, removing the towel from his forehead and placing it back in the bowl behind him.

“Feel better?”

“Mhmm.”

“I’m gonna’ need to put it back on in a minute.”

“Is’ cold. I don’ like it.”

“I know. But I need to keep you from overheating.”

Gon whined again, a nasal sound croaking from his throat. Killua let his hand play with short sky-bound tufts at the back of his head while the other dipped the towel deeper into the bowl.

“Don’ put it back on.”

“I gotta’. Only for a little bit, okay?”

He shook his head, a thin sheen of sweat coating his skin. His brow was furrowed, and though his eyes were glossy he still stubbornly turned his face away into the pillow. 

But Killua knew him too well.

“For me? Please?”

Was this a bit of manipulation? Yes. Was he doing it for Gon’s benefit? Yes. Would he ever do this again? Debatable, especially if it meant stopping him from diving headfirst into danger that would most likely get him killed, or in this to keep him from overheating.

And Gon, true to his nature, relented and let Killua smooth his forehead with the damp cloth, shivering against the cooler material. 

“Hate this,” Gon muttered, eyes shut and content in Killua’s arms. He couldn’t see it, but Killua knew that if he looked now, he would see the other pouting into his neck.

“Now you see the importance of poison immunity.”

“C’n _I_ get that?”

“You’d probably end up like this quite a few times.” Killua chuckled, running a hand back up and down Gon’s side, his other arm supporting Killau’s head against the pillow.

“Did you?”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t too bad. Got easier every time. Now nothing ever happens.”

“So cool. _Killuah_.” Gon breathed.

Complimenting him even when he himself was half delirious? What a dork.

“Shush, go to sleep; it’ll make you feel better.”

“Not sleepy.” Stubborn piece of shit.

“ _Bull_ shit.”

“No.” he drawled, and Killua felt a twitch in his shaking arm, glancing down to see it struggling to move. Killua nonchalantly encircled Gon’s wrist and brought the quivering hand between their chests, resting it there.

“‘M not sleepy. Can’t stop shaking. Sorry.”

“It’s no problem, really. You idiot. I got you.”

“You got me.”

“Mhmm. So go to sleep.”

A pause, then; “Kih. Killua?”

“Yes?”

“You won’t leave, right?”

Killua smiled despite Gon not being able to see it and rested his cheek against Gon’s hair.

“‘Course not. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Pruh-promise?”

“Mm, promise.”

. . .

He was startled awake by Gon’s violent, wet coughs that managed to shake Killua’s own ribs. He snapped his eyes open and drew Gon away from his chest to see him in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

Dark smudges painted beneath his eyes, skin shining with sweat and freckles sticking out heavily against pale, flushed skin. Had he even slept? It certainly didn’t look like it.

“Woah, woah, deep breaths, okay?” Killua panicked, settling his palm to Gon’s heaving chest, finger splayed to feel the unsettling rattle of his ribcage. He wheezed a wet breath, barely inhaling before erupting into coughs all over again.

“Leorio! Leorio, I need some water!” Killua called out, _knowing_ the man was awake, and was proved correct when Leorio burst into the room a minute later with a large glass of sloshing water.

“Give him some space,” Leorio instructed, and Killua hesitantly shuffled back a bit, hands hovering over Gon’s shaking torso. Leorio propped the glass on the desk and touched Gon’s forehead with the back of his hand.

“He’s burning up again, but that’s normal for now. I think he’s just reacting to the residue salt irritation in his throat. Make him drink the water and let him cough it out.”

“Are you sure that’s it?”

“Just keep using the towel to cool him down.”

“He’s saying he’s cold. Should I get him more blankets or something? _Fuck,_ Leorio, he’s…” Killua trailed off, lips pursed and brows drawn together. He heard Leorio sigh beside him.

“Yeah, I know it’s tough. _Trust_ me. But he’ll push through. All these are symptoms of the antibodies working, so he’ll be fine. You being here’s probably making him feel better too.”

Killua grumbled (he felt so fucking _useless_ . Was this what Gon felt like, when it had been Killua resting in this very bed after almost bleeding to death? If so, he supposed he owed Gon an apology. This feeling was the _worst_.), but moved to support Gon’s chest nonetheless, rubbing his back in hopefully soothing motions while his ugly coughing subsided. Leorio nodded, ebbing out of the room despite the obvious want to stay and help shining in his eyes (he knew Killua too well). He assured Killua that he would be awake if he needed him, pausing at the entrance with pursed lips before sighed and shuffling out.

Once the door clicked shut and the footsteps padded away (he owed Leorio too), Killua turned back to Gon, grabbing the water and gingerly touching the rim of the glass to his lips.

“Hey, I want you to drink this for me.”

Gon shook his head no, eyes squeezed shut. Another shudder passed through his body.

“You need to stay hydrated.”

“Not thirsty.”

“I know. I _know,_ okay? But you gotta’ drink.”

“Ngh, Killua. I don’ wanna’.”

“A small sip. That’s all I’m asking. One small sip, ‘kay?”

“... only one?”

“The smallest fucking sip.”

Gon nodded, accepting as Killua trickled a thin stream of water through dry, chapped lips. A small portion, barely a teaspoon, before Gon was moving away and Killua was forced to lift the cup back up. He swallowed thickly, looking pained, and whined when Killua gently touched the rim to his lips again.

“You said one.” Good God, he sounded so sad, and Killua’s heart shook a little. Despite this, he pushed on. Dehydration was one of the worst consequences of poisoning as well as his fever. Gon drank too little.

“It was _too_ small.”

“Kih-Killua. It _hurts_.”

Gon never complained about pain. He was so out of it right now.

“One more. Promise.”

Another meagre sip a bit bigger than the last, but Killua didn’t press when Gon looked one step away from a meltdown, big glassy eyes pooling with hot tears.

“Good. That was so great. I’m so fucking proud.” And he was. He was proud that Gon was fighting this, that he had had to go through this to keep his sister safe. That he was trying to get better because Killua asked.

He ran a hand through Gon’s damp hair, rubbing against his hot scalp. In return Gon turned to give him a big, crooked and wobbly smile, teetering on the edge of collapse, and Killua found himself melting at the droopy expression.

“Dork,” he muttered, resting his fingers intertwined within dark locks.

He wet the abandoned cloth and placed it on Gon’s forehead, resting him back down on the bed, Gon was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

. . .

Gon was still asleep when Killua woke up, and so he bargained that he could quickly wrestle out of bed to get some food for the both of them while the other slept. He maneuvered out of the covers, making sure to replace Gon’s towel before ruffling his own bangs and cracking the door open.

The kitchen was empty from his vantage point, though Kurapika could be seen sitting idly at the coffee table sporting a mug of dark brew and an abandoned book by his arm as he gazed out at nothing. Leorio was nowhere to be seen.

When their eyes met, Kurapika's eyes widened (had he dozed off?) and his grip tightened. Killua walked past him and into the kitchen, putting an already full kettle onto the stove.

“How is he?” Kurapika asked, tension gathered in his straight-set shoulders and seemingly permanent shadows darkened beneath his eyes.

“Still asleep for now.” Killua yawned, grabbing two mugs and (after searching through half the cupboards) selected a teabag for one of them, slotting the other under the coffee machine. “Though his fever’s pretty high, I think.”

“Ah, yeah, Leorio told me what happened. There’s food in the fridge.”

“I don’t think he’s going to be able to stomach anything, but I’m trying to keep him hydrated at least.”

“It’ll help with the fever, though I admit that I lack the knowledge when it comes to poison.”

Killua sighed and ran a hand through his course, tangled hair, wincing when his fingers stuck against coiled knots.

“I’d hoped that I’d never _have_ to use it, but I guess nothing ever works out for us that way, huh?”

Kurapika’s gaze softened, and he offered a small smile while he sipped his probably lukewarm coffee, eyes finding a place in his book once more. 

Killua turned to answer the whistling kettle, adding honey to the mix because he knew that though he didn’t have a strong sweet-tooth, Gon adored anything with honey in it. He also checked the fridge after his stomach rolled around and cursed him (audibly), and found that there was, in fact, newly stocked food amongst the shelves. He got himself vanilla yogurt for the time being.

“If you need anything, I’ll be right here.” Kurapika called out to his retreating back, “Leorio knocked out two hours ago, so he’s still asleep.”

Killua waved at him with his yogurt, toeing the door at the end of the small hallway open and shouldering it shut behind him.

Gon was shivering, though seemingly still asleep. The blankets wrapped around his body in twisted curls and shifting wrinkles, drawing off his shoulders as his body wracked with small spasms. Killua set his supplies down on the increasingly busy desk and gathered the fallen towel from the side, sitting sideways on the bed to shake the other awake.

“Gon. Hey, Gon, wake up, yeah?” he spoke softly, frowning at the heat emitting from Gon’s skin. Leorio said it was fine, that the heat was to be expected and should even be taken in with enthusiasm; it meant Gon’s body was fighting back the toxin. It meant that he was going to be alright.

Killua banished the ‘what if’s from his mind. He couldn’t afford to think like that. He couldn’t.

Gon murmured unintelligibly under his breath, glossy red-rimmed eyes squinting at him in the dim of the room.

“Killuah?” he croaked, sitting up with his aid.

“Yeah, it’s me. I brought you some tea to drink. It’ll keep you hydrated.”

This time Gon didn’t complain, though Killua suspected that it was probably because he was too out of it to think straight. Killua pushed him against the headboard and stretched over to reach the forgotten towel, dabbing it in the water before gently rubbing it against Gon’s face.

“You’re doing so well, yeah?” Killua insisted, because Gon thrived on praise, though he would never outwardly ask for it. And he was; doing well, that is. He was recovering faster than Killua ever did when he was young, and it eased Killua’s worries a bit. Gon was strong. He was. “You’ll get better in no time.”

Gon hummed a clogged, static thing that crackled heavily, but Killua smiled anyway.

“‘Kay, the tea should still be warm. Try drinking some? No, Gon, _I’ll_ hold it for now. Yeah, there we go.”

Killua held the back of Gon’s head, slowly tipping the contents of the drink into his mouth and letting him swallow sip by sip until they reached halfway, like all the other times they practiced this routine. After finishing close to half, Gon gurgled something and forced Killua to quickly retreat the mug before any tea spilt.

Half a mug, not bad. If he didn’t throw it up later, he’d be good for the next few hours.

“Great, That was great, Gon. You did so well. Wanna’ sleep now? Yeah?” It was like looking after a little kid, the way Gon nodded eagerly and replied with a breathless ‘yeah’, already shuffling closer to press against Killua’s side and into the pillows below. Though his arms still wouldn’t function properly, it didn’t stop him from burying his face in Killua’s leg when he was finally laying down.

He ran a hand through Gon’s hair; he’d need another bath if he kept sweating like this. He made a mental note while reaching over to grab his yogurt. 

. . .

The next time Gon woke up fully coherent, it was in the middle of the night two days later. Of course, he woke up coughing.

It wasn’t nearly as violent, but it still made Killua sit up and rub circles on Gon’s back as his wracking coughs slowly subsided. At least his skin wasn’t as pale, and his eyes were clearer too. 

“Woah, woah. Take it easy. Here,” he held a cup of water to Gon’s lips, coaxing him into taking small sips once his hiccups receded. Two tentative sips were taken before he shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he rasped lightly, trembling hands shakily wiping at his red-rimmed eyes.

“How’re we feeling?” 

“Like shit.”

Killua chuckled, setting the water aside. “As to be expected. I meant specifics.”

“Nothing much.”

“ _Gon._ ”

“ _What._ Fine. A… a bit thirsty, I guess. And it’s kinda’ cold.” He grimaced then, lifting his hands to show Killua the way they trembled, “Cah-can’t stop shaking.”

“Alright. Not bad.” Killua started, getting up from the bed and moving around it to Gon’s side, “Feeling up to eating anything?

Gon pushed himself up from the headboard onto unsteady legs, clinging to Killua the moment he offered his hand (and when it became apparent that his legs weren’t working with him). Paralysis toxins, or poisons with side effects that included muscle function loss tended to last a while if the victim survived, though to anyone else it would have rendered them immobile for at least a week.

A commendable effort, even if it meant Killua needed to support his weight halfway to the kitchen when his legs gave out too many times. By this time in the next two days Gon would be walking on his own again, Killua knew it.

“Nu-uh, not hungry. I feel like thruh-throwing up.” Gon gulped, and despite having an empty stomach filled with nothing but water and tea, Killua still tensed.

“Just a little bit? It probably feels like shit right now, but the more you eat, the better you’ll feel.”

He didn’t actually know if this was true or not, but he wanted Gon to try and eat _something_ . Even if it was a small fruit or half a toast. _Anything._

“Mm, nah.”

“Stop being stubborn.”

“ _Killuah_ , don’ wanna’.”

“Okay, okay, _fine._ Let’s go to the kitchen and see if you change your mind?”

“Sure.”

They waddled into the connected ‘dining room’ (a section of the living room that branched between the common space and the kitchen. Leorio put a table there to give it an official name), and Gon insisted that he would be able to sit by himself. Killua shrugged and left him, stepping into the kitchen to sort out through the pantry and fridge.

“Hm, oh! Crackers sound good, no?”

“No, _no,_ Leorio’s crackers are always gross.”

“I think Kurapika bought these ones.”

“Oh.” Gon’s whisper carried through the silent apartment, and Killua realized with a slight jolt that Gon didn’t even know Kurapika was home.

“So, crackers? Oh! Shit dude, that guy is too fond of you; he got those expensive fish ones.”

“Really?!” Gon’s voice cracked pitifully at the end, but he sounded so excited for the first time in days, and so Killua was quick to open a packet and plate them while he boiled more water (he was too fond of Gon too).

Somewhere in between their small talk and the kettle beginning to whistle, soft footsteps padded down the hall, followed by a soft gasp and then faster shuffling. Killua heard Gon giggle hoarsely, and took to looking through the fridge for more food while Kurapika coddled Gon for a bit.

“Gon! You’re awake! Thank _God_ , I was so worried.”

“Thanks.” Gon replied intelligently, and Killua snorted as Kurapika came into view, settling down in his seat across from Gon.

Their usual arrangement.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked, eyes darting around Gon’s quivering form without waiting for an answer, likely taking in the information himself.

“Fine.”

“Gon.”

“What?! I’m feeling--”

“ _Gon._ ”

He sighed, a heavy crackling thing, and Killua didn’t even need to turn to know Gon was pouting.

“I don’t even get why you guys won’t bih-believe me.” He grumbled, resting his twitching arms on the table as if they were a weighted burden. They probably were. 

Killua finished stirring honey into Gon’s tea and brought it along with the crackers to place in front of Gon.

“I want at _least_ all the tea gone. At _least._ ” he instructed, watching Gon as he squinted at the opaque beverage.

“You’re never usually this nice. Meany.” Gon stuck his tongue out at him, and Killua scoffed, fighting back the heat that built behind his ears and he marched back over to the kitchen.

Gon was never one to reject food, even something like tea (though he always preferred fruit juice). He must be feeling real nauseous if he was so outwardly displaying displeasure in consuming anything. 

Still, Killua wasn’t relenting. It had been a few days since he’d eaten anything solid. That _couldn’t_ be good, especially in his current condition.

“You should eat Gon. You haven’t eaten for a few days.” Kurapika spoke Killua’s thoughts for him, and he tried hard not to think about how the blonde might be a mind-reader amongst his other various… talents.

“But I’m not even hungry. And neither has Killua!”

“I have.”

Gon gawked at him, eyes shining with betrayal, and Killua smirked to himself as he turned back to the coffee machine. Serves the idiot right for making him worry.

“How? You were with me all the time!”

“I left, dumbass, while you were asleep.”

“Oh.”

He couldn’t win against the laugh that burst past his lips when Gon sounded as breathlessly astonished as that, over something so small too. Kurapika chuckled lightly, and reached across the table to push Gon’s mug closer to him (when it became apparent he wasn’t planning on drinking it any time soon).

“Kurapika.” Gon whined, cracking the name in half and riddling it with a static itch, lowering his head onto his arms like the dramatic baby he was, “I don’t wanna.’”

“But you have to.”

“Gon!”

The shout was all too familiar, echoing down the short hallway and into the large space of the living room with ease. Three pairs of eyes turned to see Leorio, standing wide in all his sleepless glory by the doorway to his study, glasses skewed and hair almost as wild as Killua’s bedhead (only Kurapika could manage to look as put-together as he did now at three in the goddamn morning).

“ _Leorioh_!” Gon coughed out, slightly winded but equally as joyous. Leorio practically ran over, bending down to engulf Gon in a hug, eyes suspiciously wet. No one commented on them.

Gon tried to reciprocate, but his arms failed him halfway and plopped uselessly in his lap. Leorio just squeezed him tighter before drawing him away at arm's length.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again, you brat.” he nearly yelled, gripping his shoulders, “I almost had a heart attack when Killua burst in here.”

“Suh-sorry, Leorio.” Gon whispered, but his wobbly smile melted the tension gathered in the man’s shoulders, and all at once he sagged in relief, letting Gon go to sink into the seat next to Kurapika. Gon fought to bring his arms back onto the table, and Killua walked back with a plate full of banana bread he found in the fridge (the chocolate chip kind) and his coffee (he wasn’t actually sure if caffeine worked on him, but with just the right amount of sugar and cream it tasted amazing, so it was a win-win no matter what).

“How’re you feeling?” Leorio asked as Killua settled in the remaining seat beside Gon.

“Why does everyone keep asking?” 

“Because everyone was _worried_?” Leorio started incredulously, and Killua leaned back in his chair, sipping at his scalding beverage while eyeing Gon’s untouched tea, “Geez, I don’t know Gon. You tell me!”

Leorio huffed and grabbed a slice of banana bread with more force than necessary, Kurapika following in a much more elegant matter. Killua took to dipping his own slice into his drink.

Gon giggled, coughed lightly, and settled for telling everyone through a scratchy voice and numerous breathless pauses that he was feeling _fine,_ and yes, _maybe_ his throat felt like shit and _maybe_ his limbs wouldn’t stop shaking and _maybe,_ just _maybe,_ he felt like going back to sleep.

“Sorry bro, tea first.” Killua stretched out to tap the rim of Gon’s mug, settling back just in time to see him wrinkle his nose in distaste, brow furrowed.

“But _Killuah--_ ”

“You should listen to ‘em, kid. Hydration is really important, at least for the fever.” Leorio pointed out through a mouthful of food, “I analyzed the poison while you were out of it, and though the antibodies seem to have gotten rid of the toxin itself, the side effects are still going to play out until they’ve run through your system. It was a paralysis stimulator, so the effects should wear off in a few days.”

Killua blinked and zoned in on Gon’s arms; resting motionless on the table but for the occasional twitching.

“You can’t pick up the mug, can you?”

Gon averted his eyes and pursed his lips.

“This is stupid,” he mumbles instead, and both Kurapika and Leorio excuse themselves from the table; Kurapika to go and make coffee and Leorio to go change into something that wasn’t an oversized worn t-shirt and plaid shorts. Killua was grateful for the semblance of privacy, and he could tell Gon was too.

“Why didn’t you say so, huh? Stupid.” Killua chided, gulping down the last of his drink before leaning forward to pick up Gon’s.

“ _This_ is stupid. I can’t even hold a stupid mug.”

“You were poisoned. Or did you forget that fact in that big empty head of yours?”

“ _Still_.”

“Okay, stop complaining. This thing’ll get cold, and I’ll still make you drink it without warming it back up.”

He moved to sit sideways on his chair, convincing Gon to lean back on his own.

“This is unfair. I gotta’ be able to feeh-feed you too. To make it even.”

(Killua doesn’t mention how he remembers snippets of memory where Gon tipped water into his mouth and spoon-fed him warm soup while he slipped in and out of consciousness, waiting for the stitches across his stomach to be confirmed strong enough to hold his organs in. He doesn’t mention that he remembers.

He owes Gon this much, if not much more.)

“Fat chance. Plus, I already fed you. For three days.” he deadpanned, and Gon’s pout morphed into a small smile. He started leaning to the side without support, falling lightly against Killua’s chest. He snorted and brought a hand to card through soft tangled tufts.

“Theh-thanks.” Gon whispered. “Really. Thank you.”

(Thank you too, Killua wants to say. I’m repaying you. So thank you too.)

He feels his eyes soften against his will, and he lets his fingers stroke the baby hairs at Gon’s nape, where purple bruises have faded into an ugly yellow-green. He brought his head down to press a barely-there kiss to Gon’s scalp.

“Dummy,” he ends up replying, and then pushes Gon off to sit up properly once more. “Now quit being all soft; you’re still drinking all of this.”

Gon lets out a petulant complaint, and despite the crackle that resembles a poorly connected walky-talky, Killua felt a tug at his lips.

“Half.”

“Full.”

“Quarter.”

“You’re going backwards.”

“Ki-llu-ah.” Gon prolonged a little breathlessly, but obediently sipped when he brought the mug to his mouth, inching the now lukewarm drink down one mouthful at a time. Just like all the other times. Killua didn’t mind.

“Why can’t you be sweet like this to everyone, huh?” Leorio grumbled, returning from his room and graciously accepting the cup Kurapika brought for him. Killua heard Gon snicker against the rim of the mug and gently pinched his ear from where he had lent an arm on Gon’s shoulder. He begrudgingly took another sip.

“Do _you_ want me to hand-feed you?” Killua asked with a raised eyebrow, and Leorio, the absolute moron who _happened_ to be the Associations finest Medic Hunter (by some otherworldly miracle), actually paused to ponder over the offer.

“Actually, no. But you could at least gimme’ some respect.”

“Nah.”

“It’s hopeless Leorio,” Kurapika sighed through a small smile, gently blowing over his dark brew, “He’s only soft like this for two people.”

Killua felt blood rush to his cheeks, and he decided glaring at Kurapika was his best course of action.

“You know what? Yeah,” he turned to tip another mouthful past Gon’s chapped lips, “Yeah, I _am_. You assholes don’t deserve it.”

Leorio and Kurapika chuckled, and the former broke off more bread. Gon insisted he'd be able to eat his own crackers, but only nibbled past two before he frowned and abandoned the task. He rejected more tea too, but Killua lay mercy on him and set it to the side; he drank most of it anyway.

He ended up zoning out somewhere in between the conversation, Leorio and Kurapika’s chatter and Gon’s occasional reply becoming background noise as he watched Gon’s twitching hands fold neatly in his lap, idle but for the small spasms here and there. He was trying so hard (he hated being weak, hated being powerless), and every time Gon sent a grateful, albeit shaky, smile his way, his insides melted a little.

Yeah. He really was only soft for two (three) people.

When Gon’s eyes started drooping Kurapika claimed it was time for a proper grocery run at four in the morning on a weekend (“you guys are staying here. I’ll go get your stuff from the hotel. No objections.”). Killua helped his best friend -- he would most definitely kill for him without a second’s hesitation -- into bed again while the other two left the apartment.

Gon murmured something and gave him a sloppy kiss on the forehead, giving him a dopey, lopsided grin teetering on his face when he managed the action, and Killua smiled back without ever having to think about it.


	2. draw red circles on my skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just as a forewarning, i don't actually know what the 'mature rating' for blood and gore is, but if that stuff makes you :/ then this chapter may not be the best thing for you to read.

Gon has many flaws.

He’s come to realize this, in a way that imprinted his flaws beneath his skin like gnarled roots beneath the ground. He is aware that they are there, always and forever.

(The awareness of his flaws does not, however, make them any less useless.)

His eyes are sharp, even when his mind is numb and unable to truly comprehend what he’s seeing. His eyes see blankly, a projector flashing lights across a blank wall to an empty room. He sees, he processes, but he does not understand.

This is what he sees:

Killua is bleeding.

Killua is bleeding. 

There is blood on the floor and it belongs to Killua. 

Killua is bleeding.

Killua is bleeding. 

(It’s red. It’s red. It’s red.)

There is blood on the ground.

Killua is bleeding.

Gon thinks his mind is unfair. It doesn’t function as a normal brain would function. It panics too easily, succumbs to numbing fury without a struggle. It is unable to swallow things down, unable to pick up pieces that everyone else could. He thinks his mind is broken, because it's looping the scenes and thoughts in his head like a whirlwind. An endless shrieking vortex echoing behind his eardrums, bouncing around and around inside his skull as he looks down at his hands (they are red) to Killua (he is red) to the ground (it’s stained red), back to his hands.

A pattern on repeat, circling circling circling until his own frozen vision makes him dizzy.

He draws his eyes up.

This is what his eyes see:

Killua is bleeding.

Killua is bleeding. 

There is blood on the floor.

Killua is bleeding.

He is red. He is bleeding. 

He is not moving.

Gon needs to _start_ moving. _Now_.

He feels himself look down to his hand, blurry and strangely crimson, sticky and unnaturally warm, unnaturally heavy. There is a screen before his eyes, and it wavers the contrasting grayscale colors until it becomes another muddled watercolor. Focus, focus, what do you see, he asks himself.

I see red.

I see red.

This is not normal.

This red is not normal.

Turn around, look up, he commands himself, and in one swift motion his breath is stolen as his eyes sharpen, the feeling of his nerves buzzing within his fingertips lighting sensation to his mind. He was back, he was back. 

Look up, he commands, a bit louder, and it efficiently snatches his mind from the fog and forces his eyes up.

There is… a lot of red.

“Killua!” he gasps out, throat closing in as his vision once again decides to spin out of calibar, his flimsy control shattering. No no, you can’t lose focus. What do you see? What do you see? What’s going on? Look up, look up.

Gon grits his teeth and rubs his eyes with blood-stained fingers, pressing hard enough to push back the swirling black creeping up behind his eyelids. Look up, look up, ignore the way your stomach turns itself in knots, ignore the way your chest squeezes with pressure, ignore the fact that you cannot breathe. Look up, yeah, that’s right. Up up up.

He sees red. Red upon red upon white.

“Gon,” he hears a whisper, then a huffing breath that sounded too breathless, and then a whine. Gon manages to focus his eyes up.

There was crimson painted on Killua’s face, in his hair, on his tattered clothes. Gon doesn't remember seeing this much blood on him before. What happened? He needs to try and remember, try and get past the suffocating feeling of rage, of panic. Killua was on the ground, and he was more red than white, and that was not natural. It wasn’t okay.

It pooled around him, this red, spreading around as if it were crawling, staining the concrete beneath them a glistening crimson. Stop drinking his blood, Gon wants to beg, to claw this precious wine from the ground and give it back to his best friend -- where it belongs. Stop drinking it, he wants to shout, it’s Killua’s. Not yours. Stop it stop it stop it.

(Gon has many flaws. One of his greatest flaws is that he is weak.)

Gon tears his gaze away from the thick red syrup by his knees and looks up.

Killua is painted in a stark red, the color of a dying sun, of sputtering wild berries crushed underfoot. Gon doesn’t know of any artist who would paint something so vivid, so violent; red upon red upon white. The cherry color is deep, almost intimate in its sheen, in the way it looks like it belongs someplace where it shouldn't be seen. Like Gon is witnessing something private. He tries to not laugh because, well, that notion was kind of right. He wasn’t _supposed_ to be seeing Killua’s blood.

Killua’s blood.

Killua is bleeding.

There is blood on his hands and it belongs to Killua.

He draws in a breath.

(If this is the work of an artist, it is the worst piece of artwork he’s ever seen. It’s too real, too bright and tangible and _real_ , and it terrifies him to the core.)

“Kih-Killua! Oh my God,” he manages to choke out a past his stuttering, erratic breath, forcing his eyes to trail down Killua’s arms, where slick ruby fingers clutched the torn, soaking cloth of his shirt. 

(The scent of iron was thick, as if someone had melted copper coins. It coated his nose, his mouth, lapped around his tongue like a heavy blanket of metal. He could feel the acidic taste of bile worm it's way up his throat. He swallowed it down, and the feeling was akin to gulping back sand.)

Killua was bleeding. He was bleeding too much. Too much.

He sucked in another harsh inhale between clenched teeth, and slowly inched forward, daring to cross the pool of red red red that glistened and twinkled under the dull sunset light. The liquid was warm, hot in a way that lit his skin on fire and brushed over caramel with a violent deep cherry coating. It felt sticky, heavy. Felt like it was sinking through his flesh and mingling with the marrow of his bones, carrying with it the poisonous taunts of _you’re not strong you’re not strong you’re not strong._

(Gon agrees with the cherry crimson lapping at his palms.)

By the time he’s reached Killua’s side, his legs are drenched in liquid iron and his hands are thoroughly doused with an angry burning acid that was _red_ _red red_.

Killua was on his back, his fingers clenching at the tattered black turtle neck he was wearing. It was shredded, long tears within the cloth that had small seems sticking out against the heavy weight of blood.

Focus, he commands himself.

Killua’s face -- under the sickening amount of red -- is white, too white. Almost a sickly grey-blue that matches the early morning dew which coats iron gates before the sun manages to break past the horizon. It looked unnatural, cold, like it belonged to someone who was dead--

Focus.

Focus. 

Gon brings one hand up to grip his hair, coating his scalp with his best friend's blood as he pulled, pulled hard enough that the pinpricks of pain were able to sharpen his gaze and steady his breathing. He pulled harder, harder harder harder, until his skin screamed for him to stop and he felt his mind still, no longer buzzing.

(Killua would usually berate him by now. “You shouldn’t be using pain to help you Gon, that’s called being self-destructive.

It’s for Killua though, he reasons, it’s okay if it’s for Killua.)

“Killua. Killua.” He chants absent-mindedly, one hand in his hair while the other hovered over the mauled mess of torn black fabric soaked to the very fibre with red.

Killua doesn’t reply, but his eyes slowly, almost painfully roll to meet Gon’s, and he thinks that it was enough for now. Killua was looking at him. Eyes that resembled a raging wave bellowing while he watched from under the surface shining in a strange gloss, a strange sheen, as if he wasn’t actually seeing Gon.

Unseeing.

Carefully, Gon lowers his hands, gingerly brushing his slick ruby fingers with Killua’s equally red ones, the ones that clutched at _something_ beneath tattered strips of fabric.

“Killua.” He whispers as softly as possible, but he thinks it sounds hoarse, panicked, almost hysterical. Get a hold of yourself, stop shaking, stop trembling. You can’t help him if you can’t stop trembling.

(His hands continue to tremble.)

“Killua, I need to see.” He tries again, steadier, steadier than his hands at least. He needs to stay strong enough for the both of them, strong enough that they can maybe find help before.... well, Gon doesn’t want to think about that right now.

He doesn’t get a response, but unlike Gon, Killua is strong, and it shows in the way he understands Gon’s request by loosening his grip. He is able to pry his hands away, gently, like he was dealing with flower petals (and at this point, he doesn’t see the difference). There is no fight, no pulling away as Gon lowers his hands to the ground where they can float in the pool of thick red wine around them.

(The smell is awful. It’s driving Gon crazy. It was everywhere, overpowering anything that could provide a sense of balance, of equilibrium amongst the swirling iron. His nose burns and the space between his eyes itches. He swallows anyways, because if he tried to do anything he’d just paint more blood on his face, and this blood belonged to Killua.)

“I just, don’t. Don’t, uhm, don’t move. Don’t move, okay?” Gon instructs, though he doesn’t know if Killua heard him. He barely hears himself above the nasty ringing bouncing around in the air. But Killua’s hum is audible even in the midst of the raging bells beside his ears, and it’s all he needs to push his hands forward, trembling and all, and tear off Killua’s battered shirt.

It’s easy, almost too easy, to break away at sodden black fabric, tearing it into long strands that sop in between his fists, barely clenched and yet wringing blood out like rain. The shirt used to be black, so that the color could blend in with its surroundings. When Killua explained this Gon had mused that it wouldn’t even matter because he has white hair, and Killua had flicked him in the forehead for it.

Now the color of the shredded fabric was dark, too dark, a shade darker than black. A color he shouldn’t be witnessing, something too deep and too… _otherworldly_ for his blurring eyes to see.

He sees it anyway, and he tries not to think too hard about how there was blood layering over blood on his hands. Blood that belonged to his best friend.

Beneath him Killua is still, deathly so, and Gon knows better than to assume. Killua was trained by the highest level of assassins out there, and knew how to command his body better than anyone else. He was trained until it became second nature, the ability to hold still, to control the urge to panic.

Still, the way he didn’t move but for his shallow breathing, the slight rise and fall of his exposed chest (it was red) to the flutter of his soaked hair (it was red) to the way his lips moved soundlessly to the echo of his name (they were painted red).

Gon gives him the best smile he could muster, something that made the drying blood on his face crinkle and dip into the crevices of his skin, flowing into the wrinkles between his nose and in his mouth. It felt like blisters expanding over his skin, with its hot hot hot and heavy heavy heavy. But he did it anyway, gave Killua the widest smile he could.

With the shirt torn up and placed to the side, Gon forced his eyes to move down. Don’t panic don’t panic don’t fucking _panic._ Just… just look down, yeah? Look down.

He looked down.

It was deep. He could tell without even having to inspect it further. The wound was deep, and it was long. It reminded Gon of a canyon, of a great cut within the earth that led down down down into the core, showcasing the world’s underbelly to the sky. 

This canyon was a lot more red, and a lot more personal. A lot more intimate.

There were things Gon shouldn’t be seeing. There was the peak of… he didn’t want to know which organ that was, didn’t want to watch the way each of his shallow breaths revealed the stark white of bone within the crying flesh.

It was mangled, the skin was mangled and twisted and Gon didn’t want to be here anymore, wanted to scream and tell Killua to cut it out, stop bleeding already, stop making me see stuff that should be under your skin. 

It was deep. And it was long. And Gon feverishly realized that the way he tore the shirt into strips had been an unconscious effort to try and preserve the fabric, to create some sort of bind until he found help.

The fabric wouldn’t be long enough. It was too tattered, too soaked in iron crimson. It wouldn’t hold.

Gon couldn’t carry Killua like this. He couldn't. He couldn’t. He would fall apart in his hands, would break away and bleed and paint the rest of Gon in red that didn’t belong to anyone but Killua.

Focus.

Focus.

There was a cut. It was long. It was deep.

He didn’t know where the hospital was. He doesn’t remember seeing it when Kurapika drove them to the store this morning. Doesn’t remember seeing the universal cross as they raced down the streets. Doesn’t remember Leorio ever mentioning--

Oh.

He’s so dumb.

Leorio was a doctor. Leorio would know what to do.

Leorio. Leorio Leorio Leorio Leorio.

Gon knew where Leorio was.

Gon… Gon just needed to get Killua to Leorio. Leorio wasn’t useless like Gon was. He would help Killua. He would actually be able to do something.

But looking back down, Gon wasn’t stupid enough not to realize that moving Killua would mean potentially spilling everything that was supposed to be hidden behind ash-white skin onto the ground. 

He didn’t look too hard at the bubbling… _something_ churning behind Killua’s split flesh. 

Doesn’t pay mind to the ladder-like structure of his ribs, of the way they twitched and expanded with each breath.

There was so much red.

The fabric wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t.

It wouldn’t do anything.

Killua was bleeding.

He was bleeding.

He was losing blood.

He was losing it.

Oh God, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He couldn’t leave, but he couldn’t move Killua. He doesn’t have his phone, he doesn’t know what to do.

There were slick ruby fingers dancing in front of his face, and Gon couldn’t help but snort because even while _laying bleeding dying_ on the floor he still managed to grab Gon’s focus.

He wasn’t shaking, but he was moving slowly, too slowly for Killua. Killua was fast, faster than this. The way his hand inched forward, up up up until they rested gingerly on his shoulder, cold digits beneath hot cherry wine. He mustered a small smile, and Gon stretched one back, even as Killua had to drop his hand to use energy to speak. 

It left three long streaks of red down his arm from where his fingers dragged down, falling limp beside his hand. (Killua was painting him, he thought idly.

He felt sick.)

“Gon,” he whispered, barely-there and barely audible. Gon knelt lower, bringing his face directly above Killua’s to hear him. To hear his breathless words. His hands -- useless, powerless, unable to _do anything_ \-- hovered above the pulsing wound, unsure if pressure would make such a gaping chasm worse. He was sure that if he pressed down, he would touch something that shouldn’t be touched. It was too intimate, too personal, and too dangerous.

(It was too vulnerable.)

So instead he brought one hand up, ghosting over Killua’s body until he reached his face. A not-touch dancing between them as Gon brushed over red bangs that were normally white, and letting Killlua know that _I’m listening I’m listening tell me tell me I’m listening._

“Burn it.”

Gon lurched back.

“Burn--burn it, yeah? It’s, uh, it’s... yeah. It’s the only way. The only way I-you, we need to move. Yeah? So.

Burn it.”

Burn it.

Killua wants him to burn it.

There was a word for it.

Gon couldn’t remember.

That would--that would work, right? Burn the chasm shut, or shut enough that Gon would be able to carry him. Give him enough time to find Leorio. Enough time to save Killua.

He was already reaching out with his ash-white fingers covered in crimson blood, reaching up up up to where Gon’s hand gingerly stroked over his ear, painting it a deeper maroon. Was gripping his palm with the strength that Gon could never have, was looking at him with eyes far too cloudy yet far too familiar.

Felt the pulse of Killua’s static Nen, a _burning churning vibrant_ energy thrumming between their interlocked hands and making the metallic wine around them sing with the taste of _lightning._

“You-you know what to. What to do, yeah?”

Gon didn’t trust his voice enough to speak, so he smiled and nodded, cupping Killua’s hand with his own and nodding a second time even though Killua saw the first.

(His hands continued to tremble.)

. . .

Leorio had a modest home, because though he could go on and on about the benefits of money, for all his talk, he doesn’t practice his preaching.

His apartment isn’t small, but isn’t expensive. Leorio once bashfully explained how the instinct to save everything he could hasn’t really gone away yet, and that even though his income was more than comfortable, he couldn’t help but hoard it for a _just in case_ kind of situation.

When Kurapika moved in as an unofficial ‘roommate’ who “payed half the bills but was absent most of the time”, Leorio’s spendings increased. Mainly because he had another mouth to feed, even if that mouth was home for one week out of two months.

Still, the apartment stayed the same, and the almost familiar stairwell that crisscrossed high above their heads was a comforting sight.

Killua hadn’t said a word, but he had promised to stay awake, had promised to stay awake for Gon. 

He doesn’t pay attention to the scalding scab rubbing at his bare back, nor the way his shirt was starting to feel wet. Killua was still breathing beside his ear, still keeping his promise by tracing small circles in Gon’s shoulder while he dragged them both up.

It was hard though. Killua was tall, way taller than him, and his legs dragged against the stairs with each step, arms which were unable to hold him bouncing slightly with each footfall.

Gon continued up anyway.

Another small circle was completed, another drying red painting on his caramel skin.

Leorio lived on the fourth floor.

Leorio lived on the fourth floor.

One more floor. One more floor.

(Leorio had originally lived on the first floor, because with all the back and forth between his apartment and the hospitals he worked at, it was tiring and time-consuming to climb stairs. Kurapika had been so displeased at the information when he had come unannounced to declare he was moving in. He had explained to Leorio a thorough analysis on why living on the first floor was a terrible idea, mainly because it was easy to be attacked on the first floor without warning.

Begrudgingly, Leorio moved, and though Gon had found the whole scenario pretty funny, now he couldn’t help but curse his previous humor.)

One last stair, a turn, push the door open, another circle drawn on his shoulder (this one parallel to his collarbone).

The hallway loomed before him, mahogany carpet brittle underfoot (he would know, as he and Killua had run down this very hall this morning barefoot with bags full of junk food). Lights situated on either side cast uneven yellow light around them, warping their shadows into something ugly, something deformed.

(He _almost gleefully_ noticed that the blood dripping between Killua’s wrapped chest and Gon’s bare back wouldn’t be distinguishably against the dark floor.)

Leorio lived at the end of the hall. Beside the fire escape at Kurapika’s insistence.

It seemed to stretch on forever, this mahogany hallway.

On and on and on.

The doors were laughing at him.

He ignored them

Another circle drawn on his shoulder, this one closer to the heart.

The fabric Gon had used to bind Killua’s chest -- his own shirt, after… after burning the wound -- was dripping now, crimson on mahogany, the flooring greedily drinking up the offer.

One last door.

He knocked with his forehead, three times, because his hands were preoccupied.

A fourth time. 

A fifth time.

What was taking so long?

A sixth time.

Another circle.

Was Leorio even home?

Gon froze, head inches from the door. Paralyzed in fear, a wave of cold terror settling in his joints and making the back of his knees quake and tingle; he hadn’t even considered if Leorio was home or not. Oh on. Oh no no no. He… he could be at work. Or out. Or not _at home_ and oh God, Gon didn’t think this through. He didn’t know what to _do_. Leorio wasn’t home and his legs were about to collapse and Killua was on his back _bleeding to death_ and Gon didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know where to go. Killua was bleeding, Killua was dying, Killua was dying and Gon’s at a dead end because Leorio’s not here and there’s nowhere else to go and even as he bashes his head against the door in an attempt to control his breathing he can’t help but despair because this was it, wasn’t it? He doesn’t have a plan anymore. This is it. This is--

The door swings open, and Gon doesn’t even try to stop the relieved tears suddenly carving through the dried blood on his face.

Leorio, well, Leorio's scowl was morphing into shock, mouth hanging open and eyes widening until Gon was sure he was straining them behind his glasses.

“Leorioh.” He chants, light and high-pitched, snapping the man’s name in two with his relief because Leorio was _here_ and he would know what to do. He would help Killua.

“Oh my God,” The man whispered, fingers moving from the doorway to rest on his lips, a hitch in his next breath. “What-what happened?”

“Uhm, I don't, ah, I don’t know,” Gon breathes, trying to stop himself from crying. It doesn’t work, and he feels a laugh bubble up in his throat. Nothing about this situation is funny.

“Oh my--okay, okay, come inside. Uhm, yeah,” Leorio quickly moved away from the door, ushering Gon inside, his hands hovering over them, already trying to assess the damage. “Good God, Gon, what the hell happened?”

“I don’t remember,” he whispers, and he thinks he sounds very far-away, this Not Gon that was speaking through his mouth. He sounded too small, too weak, too broken with his broken words and his broken memory. “I don’t remember.”

He’ll repeat it as many times as he needs, because at this point it’s all he can do. Apologize for being useless and carry Killua a little bit longer.

“Okay, okay, it’s okay Gon.” Leorio has a wrinkle in his forehead, right above the arch of his brow, and it's a sign that he’s worried, that he’s already thinking, already planning. “That’s fine. For now get him on my bed, _now._ I… I have stitches, I think. Uhm, where is he hurt?”

They’re already moving, and Not Gon has found strength in Gon's legs, pushing him forward. This is actually quite easy, he thinks, letting Not Gon walk for him, repeat what he thinks through his mouth. He’s just watching now, through his own eyes as Not Gon helps Killua in a way Gon would never be capable of doing.

. . .

He’s in a tub.

He doesn’t remember how he got there, but he knows that this bathtub he’s sitting in is familiar. The knob is actually a handle that spins around for the temperature that Gon could never quite figure out how to function. There’s the detachable shower head, the double curtains -- one is a thin baby-blue plastic while a thicker, brown fabric one rests outside of it. 

It’s warm, and there is water rippling around him, around his waist, above his hips. He curls his toes, knowing without having to see them that they resemble dried raisins, plump and white with wrinkles. Pruny.

There are hands in his hair.

He doesn’t know who they belong to.

The water around him is salmon pink.

He looks up.

Kurapika always seemed ageless to Gon, with fair features of a long-dead tribe. His foreign appearance shows in the strange slope of his nose, the stoic grey of his eyes, his thin bottom lip. His hair is longer, Gon notes, enough that it sits in a loose bun at the base of his skull. There were grey-blue-purple smudges under his eyes though, that make his ageless appearance seem tired, weary even. Gon always found himself wanting to wipe them away, make Kurapika seem free, untethered, light.

When their eyes meet, the thin fibre-like structure of Kurapika’s greyscale eyes shines like dying embers, a ruby color that Gon always found beautiful. 

It does not remind him of blood, and he is grateful.

“Hey,” Kurapika sighs, withdrawing his hands from Gon’s hair and carding through several bottles lining the tub. Gon just noticed them; he was sure they weren’t there before.

He cannot will himself to reply, and takes to staring at Kurapika. Not Gon seems to have abandoned him, and weight has settled within his bones, down to the marrow. He cannot spare energy for anything, and so he takes to watching the way the other finally picks up a bottle -- cylindrical and black -- squeezing with nimble fingers until smooth white soap layered on his palms in melting ribbons.

“I’m cleaning your hair.” Kurapika starts, giving Gon a gentle smile -- Kurapika’s smiles, though rare, were always genuine and from the heart, and they never failed to make him warm -- and reached up once more. The shampoo was cool against his burning scalp, and he closed his eyes to the sensation of thin fingers working it into each strand, careful, gentle, full of fondness. 

“Leorio’s with Killua now,” He continued slowly, moving down to rub soothing circles against his nape, “He’s stitching the… the wound. It had been a smart idea to cauterize it when you did.”

Cauterize. That was the word.

There was a stone stuck in his throat, blocking his words from his tongue, and so he kept his eyes closed and hoped Kurapika understood.

(He did.)

“You’re so messy,” Kurapika chided lightly, guiding Gon’s head to the side so he could rub behind his ears. “This is the third time I’m using this shampoo.”

Gon wanted to apologize. He couldn’t.

It continued like this: Kurapika washing Gon’s hair and rinsing it, talking quietly and pointlessly while he listened, eyes closed. It felt good, this warmth, the familiar hands against his head, of being stripped from the sticky, dried blood. He felt cleaner, lighter.

When the hands left his hair longer than before, he mustered up enough strength to open his eyes.

“I need to wash your face now,” Kurapika explained, towel in hand, rubbing soap into the fabric (this fabric was mint green, the smell was not iron but lavender and something soft). “Then I’ll clean your back, okay?”

Gon nodded, and closed his eyes again. He could trust Kurapika, he didn't have to see everything to feel at ease here.

Methodical movements followed; the way Kurapika gently wiped at his face, cleaning away the blood, the grit and dirt, the dried tear tracks. Stroking away layers and revealing fresh skin, skin that wasn’t painted and wasn’t dirty.

Kurapika’s hands weren’t soft (none of their hands were soft), but the callouses built on his thin fingers felt welcoming against his cheeks. The thumb brushing back his hair felt tender, caring. He felt safe.

“What happened Gon?”

He refused to open his eyes, and the stone in his throat taunted him.

“Killua’s in pretty bad shape, and Leorio told me you don’t remember anything. But there has to be something, right?”

I don’t know. I don’t know. I can’t remember anything past opening my eyes and seeing Killua. Seeing blood on the ground and cherry red on his fingers and crimson iron creeping past my lips and down into my lungs.

He wants to say this. Instead he says: “I don’t know.”

It’s so quiet, he’s surprised Kurapika heard anything at all. 

But then there’s a soft sigh, and soon after warm hands are trailing down his neck, the towel scratching away the insistent itch of dried wine on his skin.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, really, Gon. It’s not your fault.”

Those words were too soft. He didn’t deserve them.

Kurapika repeats them anyway, and he feels his eyes burn, and he wonders if Kurapika accidentally got soap in his eyes.

“Oh, hey, hey,” Gon refuses to open his eyes, he refuses. “Gon, Gon, look at me, okay? It’s not your fault.”

It is.

“You did everything you could, and Killua is going to be fine.”

It’s my fault.

“Gon, here--”

All at once the hands and towel are gone. He thinks he deserves being left, for being weak, being unable to do anything when Killua needed him most. For letting him get hurt in the first place. This isn’t fair, this wasn’t fair. Killua should be the one standing and taking a bath, not him. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t.

He doesn’t deserve the way Kurapika encircles his shoulder with his arms, or the way he pushes Gon’s head into his neck, the way he rubs his warm warm hands across his back, scratching away at the scabs and the dirt.

He doesn't deserve to cry. He shouldn’t have the luxury.

His eyes don’t listen to him, and the burning prickling sensation spills over past his lids, down his cheeks.

Kurapika doesn’t move, doesn’t let him go, and Gon knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he soaks it all in anyway. 

. . .

“Where is he?”

“In Leorio’s room.”

I want to see him, is what he wants to say, but Leorio’s room is closed and there is bright light spilling from the crack of the doorway. Leorio never closes his door.

“I know you want to see him, but just let Leorio do his thing, okay? Killua is strong, he’ll be okay.”

He _is_ strong, he _is_.

Gon remembers the numerous times they’ve shared stories, how Gon would be amazed that despite the other’s gruesome memories, his skin was immaculate. Not a single scar, not a single scratch. Gon himself has countless white scars littering all over his body (he knows he’d have many many _many_ more had Nanika not been there to save him), from clumsy falls to petty fights, missions getting messy and discovering scars that he doesn’t even remember getting. They’re all small, all hidden amongst his freckles, and he doesn’t think twice about them.

Killua’s skin is white, like the leftover snow-ash of a fire, and his body is unblemished, untouched by color or dots or scars. He had said that it comes from his family's blood, the ability to heal any wound to the point of no scarring. It’s fascinating, seeing untainted skin stretch and ripple, practically untouched by time.

But to make up for the lack of scars, Killua’s skin is calloused. As if layering the skin that would normally be vulnerable and soft until it looked clean. There is nothing soft about Killua’s body, nothing soft about his appearance.

Gon mourns only a little, because Killua’s hair appeared deceivingly soft, but it showed Gon that Killua is strong. His body is strong, his skin is strong. He can get through anything, appear unfazed. 

It’s hard to believe that now though, sitting at the dinner table with untouched toast before him. Knowing that Killua is in the other room with far less blood than what he left this very apartment with.

Kurapika is stirring together something in the kitchen, and Gon feels his eyes on him. Gon doesn’t think he could swallow anything past the tightening behind his tongue, but he is grateful that Kurapika is doing all this; staying, not leaving, making him coffee even though Gon doesn’t drink coffee. He’s grateful.

A mug is set down under his nose. It’s fruit juice. 

He feels hot pinpricks between his eyes, and he rubs them away.

“He’s going to be fine, Gon.”

“I know.”

“It’s okay to be worried.”

“I know.”

“Okay,” Kurapika gave Gon one last headpat before sitting opposite to him -- their usual arrangement -- and bringing his own beverage to his lips.

. . .

“Kurapika?”

“Hm?”

“Uhm, I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you don’t have to be sorry.”

“Still. I’m sorry.”

. . .

Leorio doesn’t come out of the room until hours later, when the night sky is dark and moonless, and the streetlights cast long rays of orange light beams through the apartment window. It must be at least four, no, five in the morning now. Sunrise would be in two hours.

Gon hasn’t slept, even though he felt exhausted. There was still a dull weight in his limbs and chest, but his mind refused to black out. So he sat on the sofa, knees drawn up and arms supporting his chin while he stared blankly at the running television. Kurapika stayed with him, leaving once to grab some blankets and a book. He said all they could do was wait, and though Gon wanted to burst into Leorio’s room with every fiber of his being, he knew that right now, Killua needed his patience, not his brash actions.

So he sat, and he waited, and Kurapika read quietly beside him, an arm thrown over Gon’s shoulders. (He wonders when Kurapika got so good at reading him, and knowing what he liked and disliked. He wonders when he missed this, and then he realizes he doesn’t particularly care how they got here. He’s just glad they're _here_.)

Leorio doesn’t come out of his room until hours later, but when he does, Gon doesn’t register it until the bathroom lights click shut and Leorio’s dragging his feet to the kitchen, towel in hand.

Kurapika notices first, and nudges Gon, nodding forward.

Leorio’s in the kitchen.

Leorio’s not in his room.

He wants to do many things; scream, cry, laugh, sprint straight into Leorio’s room to see Killua alright and uninjured. Wanted him to laugh at Gon’s tear-streaked face and make fun of him for being a crybaby. He almost does all these things, but Kurapika, though weary in appearance, was quite strong. His arm holds Gon down, tethers him to the sofa, and forces him to wait until Leorio leaves the kitchen and sinks into the armchair across from them.

No one says anything. Or, Kurapika and Leorio don’t say anything, while Gon bites back the words tumbling around his tongue. He wants to know though. He needs to know if Killua was okay.

Kurapika speaks first.

“So?”

Leorio looks at Gon then, eyes narrowed and jaw set, how he usually looked like when he thought too hard.

“He’s, well, okay, straight to the point.” He sighs, shoulders dropping and running a hand through his hair. “All in all, he’s going to pull through. I hope at least.”

Gon feels the air rush out of his lungs as if he were punched, and feels an intangible weight from his shoulders disappear. The only presence pushing against him was Kurapika’s arm, and it felt warm and familiar. Wanted.

“That’s a relief.” Kurapika sighed, letting out a breath and giving Gon’s shoulder a squeeze. “He looked terrible when he came in.”

“It _was_ terrible. What the fuck happened Gon? That injury was really deep, and really fucking long. I’m glad you cauterized it when you did, but seriously. What _happened_?”

“I don’t. I don’t _know._ I don’t remember.” How many times was he supposed to repeat himself before they understood? They were walking back to their hotel, black black black, Killua was bleeding. There was blood on the ground and it belonged to Killua. He doesn’t _remember._

“Gon, it’s fine.” 

It’s not, he wants to tell Kurapika. It’s not. This is stupid, I’m stupid. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. It’s just, well, shocking is all. I wasn’t expecting to have you guys show up like… that.”

Gon looks up from his fidgeting hands, trying to see if Leorio would say more. What’s his condition, is he awake? Can I see him?

“Is he--”

“He’s unconscious right now. I know that drugs don’t work on him, but he passed out half way through.”

“Wait, he was _awake_?!” Kurapika exclaimed, tightening his grip in the process. Gon leaned in anyway.

“Yeah. I tried putting him under something, but nothing worked.” Leorio heaved a breath, taking off his glasses to rub at his nose bridge. “He kept saying he was fine, but I think the bloodloss got to him. His pain tolerance is scary though. Didn’t even flinch once.”

Well, obviously. Killua is so strong. He didn’t undergo twelve years of rigorous training for nothing. 

“Anyway, he’s asleep right now. Just, wait ‘till tomorrow to see him, okay?”

“But--”

“I know you wanna’ see him now, but just let him rest. And, I think you need some rest too. We all do.”

. . .

The apartment only had three rooms, on being converted into Leorio’s study and Kurapika’s storage area, so Leorio offered to take the futon they had and set up in his room in case Killua woke up. As much as _Gon_ wanted to be the one to stay with Killua, he knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything.

Well, that, and Kurapika bodily dragged him into his room without comment.

(“I can...I can go back to the hotel I guess--”

“Absolutely not. You’re staying here. Come on.”)

Kurapika was taller, but Gon’s shoulders were broader (he’s been told he resembles his father. He doesn’t know if he should feel proud.) Still, the shirt he’s offered fit loosely around his frame and even though he had to curl the ankles of the pants up twice he still thanked Kurapika with a tired smile.

When he lay down on the other side of Kurapika’s bed, he fell asleep in seconds.

. . .

Killua hasn’t woken up yet, and both Leorio and Kurapika refuse to let Gon out of their sight.

It’s fine. He’s not planning on going anywhere.

In his spare time he sits around in the living room watching movies, trying to help Leorio cook, cleaning up with Kurapika (who he has a sneaking suspicion is skipping some job to be here, but Kurapika’s denied it). Leorio is a surprisingly good cook, says that he self taught himself when Gon asked where the skill came from. 

(Kurapika tried to pitch when they were making naan. He managed to burn half of them before Leorio kicked him out.)

And Gon appreciates what they're doing, really. He can almost forget why he’s here in the first place, chalking up everything as their usual visits when Kurapika got berated for drinking too much coffee or when Leorio didn’t ‘pick up his shit’. 

Leorio made soup today. Well, he made soup every day, for Killua, but today he made _everyone_ soup.

It was good, spicy, and with small pieces of stripped egg inside. Kurapika bought garlic bread too, and it was really, _really_ good. 

There were hot pin pricks behind his eyes. He was so lucky to have friends like them.

(Leorio spills soup all over the floor and Kurapika smacks him with the ladle before realizing they still needed to use it. It all felt so right.

Almost.)

. . .

“Hey Killua,” Gon whispers in the dark room, gently closing the door behind him. The blinds were drawn, but the light outside was bright enough to give the room a dull orange hue. The bedside lamp was muted, but it still cast long shadows past the filtered stiff curtain. “Leorio made really good soup today. It’s kind of spicy, but I know you don’t really care about that, much.”

He settles down on Killua’s bedside, placing the bowl in his lap and stirring the sinking bits of solid food within the thick broth, forcing his brow to relax. 

Killua doesn't respond, because he was still asleep (it’s been three days), but Gon isn’t worried. He knows Killua will wake up, if only to berate him for spoon-feeding him because the notion of being fed as an almost-adult was embarrassing. 

Well, Gon didn’t even know if Killua could hear him right now, or would remember any of this. He thinks it might be for the best if he forgot, because it would be less painful to have to relive it when Killua would talk about it. He wouldn't get embarrassed being confined to a bed because he wouldn't remember anything past… past _cauterizing_ his injury with his own Nen.

He pulls a spoonful of broth from the bowl, careful to blow on it despite knowing Killua doesn’t burn easily (don’t think about it don’t think about it). He remembers getting sick once, and how Mito-san had fed him warm soup just like this. How she would blow on it until it was just right, and how the feeling of being looked after outweighed the feeling of unease.

So he blows lightly, letting leftover droplets bounce back into the bowl before bringing the spoon to Killua’s chapped lips. Tipped it back and tilted Killua’s head slightly, just as Leorio had instructed. Squeezed his nose shut and gently tapped his jaw closed. The forced swallow shouldn’t be painful, Leorio told him, and Killua isn’t coma-deep in his unconsciousness. Light enough that he should know when to swallow if he can’t breathe.

Maybe he _will_ remember this, when all _this_ blows over.

Another spoonful, blow on it, tilt his head; the process becomes mechanical yet no less feeling, no less tender. He makes sure each sip isn’t too hot and pours water into Killua’s mouth in between to make sure he doesn’t get thirsty (“Does soup even _make_ you thirsty? I don’t know, because I was eating bread too, but just in case, ya’ know?”)

He kept at it until the bowl was all done, and all that was left was chicken and egg pieces at the bottom, things that were solid and couldn’t be swallowed whole. Killua’s lips looked dry, looked parched against his pale skin, white ashes on ashes, almost like a ghost. 

But that was an unnecessary thought, because Killua was alive, right here. The slow rise and fall of his chest, the slight, ever so slight tinge of pinkish orange on his nose, in his cheeks, translucent in his ears and fingers. His veins still stuck out like gnarled roots, deep bruise-blue and green twisting beneath his flesh. They weren’t flat. They weren’t.

(“Flat veins means the person is dead.”)

Killua was going to be fine.

“You’re going to be fine, Killua.” Gon whispered, and if he tried hard enough he could convince himself that Killua was listening, “You’re going to be okay, and when this is all over you’re going to laugh at me and go buy Alluka cinnamon treats and we’re gonna’ tease Leorio over his glasses and wrinkles and Kurapika’s probably going to smack you for making us worry.”

He sniffed back the onslaught of heat behind his nose, rubbing away at stinging eyes. 

“And… and I _know_ you’re going to be fine, right? You’re too smart to just… just not wake up. And--and you promised anyway, that we would travel the world. You can’t just… just _leave_ when you’re only halfway through, ya’ know?

“This is stupid. Just...I’m gonna’ go get a towel, okay? Leorio said I should wash you up and check, ah, uhm, check the stitches to see if they’re,” a gulp, a stuttering inhale, “-- they’re holding up? So, uhm, I’m gonna’ be right back.”

He bolted before he could cry.

. . .

By the fourth day, Killua wakes up.

Gon’s asleep when it happens, and he’s never one to curse a good night’s sleep, but this time might be the only exception.

Killua wakes up when Gon’s asleep, and he only finds out the morning after when he wakes up at noon in Kurapika’s bed just like the last three nights. At this point he’s been filtering through three of Kurapika’s shirts and one of Leorio’s, and today was Leorio’s shirt day. Unsurprisingly, Kurapika is already up and outside. Surprisingly, he isn’t in the kitchen sippin dark roast coffee and reading like he usually did in the mornings. Curious but unconcerned, Gon takes to visiting the kitchen anyway, rifling through the fridge until he found the fruit juice Kurapika bought for him yesterday.

From the voices that were filtering through the doorway of Leorio’s room, two of them could easily be registered as the two apartment owners. Pouring himself juice, and then after consideration pouring a glass of water for Killua, he padded to where the voices were coming from.

“-- have to replace the stitches though, and check in again to make sure there’s no infection caused by the cauterization.”

Gon froze outside the door, toe hovering just around the corner of the closed room.

“Will it scar?” Kurapika asked, the sound muffled by the wall.

“I don’t know. But the thing with burning is that it mangles the flesh in order to stop bleeding quickly. It has a higher rate of infection, but I’m not really worried about that.”

Gon let out a soft breath.

“But scarring? I don’t know. This one is pretty brutal, and you could tell hey overdid it in order to make sure the whole thing closed up. It was a huge gash.”

Killua doesn’t scar. Killua doesn’t scar. Killua doesn’t scar.

“I don’t scar, old man. How many times do I have to tell you? Give this a week. I’ll be good as new.”

He dropped the cups and slammed the door open.

Kurapika saw him first, being the one to get hit by the door in the first place. He rubbed his side with a tight grimace, but then gave him a soft smile. Gon barely saw it.

“Gon!”

Killua was awake. In all his shirtless glory. His hair looked like a mess and there were grey bruises beneath his eyes, skin a chalky white that matched the falling ash from a dead flame. There were bandages wrapped around his chest, down down to his hips where they disappeared under his sweatpants.

He was awake.

“Kih-Killua!” 

It took every inch of self-control (and Kurapika’s death grip on his arm) he had not to just jump onto Killua -- who was awake and breathing and looking at him like you would look at someone you cherish closely -- to not bolt over and shake him by the shoulders and tell him how sorry he was and how stupid _Killua_ was for making Gon worry like that.

He doesn’t, because he has enough brain cells present to know that if he jumped on Killua now he would probably rip his stitches.

“Yeah, dummy.” Killua laughs then, softly, waving a hand over despite Leorio’s insistence that he _not move his limbs too much._ It was all Gon needed to skip out of Kurapika’s hold and crawl onto the bed.

“I’m just, you’re awake! When did you wake up?” He asked instead of acknowledging the warm heat building behind his eyes. 

The way he slowly lays beside him on Leorio’s kind-of-big bed, the way he brings his arm up, wrapping around Killua’s shoulders (it was an awkward angle; Killua’s torso is longer and his shoulders were above Gon’s. But they make it work; Killua slumps against his pillow and Gon rests parallel to the headboard. They make it work).

It feels natural, it feels fine.

“Uhm, ‘couple hours ago?” He looks to Leorio for confirmation.

“Yeah, yeah I think. Uhm, it’s been six hours.”

“And let me tell you how boring it was. I couldn’t even move! So I just sat in the dark watching that lump” -- he nodded to Leorio, who huffed without heat -- “snore like an idiot all morning.”

“Wait, so Kurapika? When did you wake up?”

“Ah, I was up all night.”

“His excuse is always ‘night watch’ but it’s getting old now.” Killua mused.

“We, and I repeat, _we,_ are in an apartment. For God’s sake Pika,” Leorio rubbed at his nose bridge, glasses skewed and hair on par with Killua’s bedhead. Only Kurapika could look as put together as he did right after waking up.

“And you didn’t wake me up?” Gon exclaimed, only settling back down when Killua pinched his arm. Right. Stitches.

“Well, yes. You’ve slept a total of ten hours in the past four days.”

“Wait, really? Gon!” 

“What?! Don’t look at me like that.”

“ _Gon._ ”

“ _Killua._ ”

“ _Both of you_ shut up.” Leorio groaned, waddling to the doorway and scratching his chest with a yawn. (Gon’s only just noticed the deep shadows beneath his eyes, half-lidded and tired. He feels bad, all of a sudden, because Leorio hasn’t actually left the apartment in four days. Hadn’t given a single indication of going to work, of not cooking for all of them, of checking on Killua every few hours and reapplying his cream and bandages. 

He feels bad, because Gon had dropped in here with Killua clinging to life by a thread, and Leorio had spent all night stitching him back together.

He owes Leorio big time.)

“What are we having for breakfast? And _please_ , Gon; next time, don’t drop the glasses on the floor. You’re lucky they didn’t shatter.”

“I am _not_ cleaning this carpet.” Kurapika snorted, eyeing the orange stain on the cream floor. He moved aside to let Leorio shuffle out before falling behind him.

“And there is no way in hell that _I’m_ cleaning it.”

“Well, we can’t let _Gon_ clean it. He’ll just make a bigger mess.”

“I will not!” 

“No, Kurapika’s doing it.”

“I am not!”

The door shut behind the two bickering adults, and their voices faded into a background buzz. The blinds were pushed to the side today, Gon noticed, and bright light filtered through the glass in a natural glow. The floor was a mess, with Leorio’s futon covered in clothes and papers and bandage rolls and soiled towels. Gon’s already thinking of a way to repay the man somehow, for his unflinching kindness; maybe make dinner? Ah, but only Leorio knew how to cook anything above grilling meat over a raw flame. Maybe clean the apartment? Or buy his favorite take-out? That might work. Leorio rarely eats out, rarely indulges in unnecessary expenses.

“What’s going on in that empty head of yours?” Killua mused, craning his head oh so slowly to rub his rough hair against Gon’s cheek. It scratched against him lightly, the way Kurapika’s nails itched away at the blood and grime on his back. Not too hard to hurt, but not too soft to give the semblance of something new, something untouched by time and vulnerable. It was comfort in its most intimate form; loving something because you knew it from the inside out, and accepting any other aspects that came with them. A package deal of sorts.

“Hm? Oh, we gotta’ pay Leorio back.” 

“What? Why would we do that?”

“Killua,” Gon deadpanned, his free hand tracing light circles into Killua’s stomach, feather-light in pressure, just above the indentation where he knew countless stitches held the skin together. “He was stitching you up until five in the morning. We robbed him of sleep.”

“Well, when you put it that way I _feel_ bad.”

Gon felt his smile soften against his will, felt his lower lip wobble in restraint of his overflowing apologies, felt aggressive prickling behind his eyes. Because Killua was awake now, under his arm. Solid and warm and real, with all his teasing and snide remarks and ocean blue eyes that reminded Gon of violent waves from under the water’s surface (they weren’t glossy, they weren’t unfocussed, they weren’t faded in their intense saturation of color. They were alive, and they were safe, and they were looking at him with such fondness that it overwhelmed his chest with the feeling of _relief._ )

“Woah, hey, what’s wrong?” Killua’s smile turned down slightly, brows coming together. There was a prominent vein in his forehead that stretched from his left brow up to his hairline that always darkened when his emotions became wild, and though Gon would normally use this small indication to tease him about what ‘big bad feelings’ he was experiencing, now it just made him want to kiss it.

(He did.)

“Sorry.” He murmured against pale skin, sniffing back the burning pinpricks tickling his nose bridge, It didn’t help.

“Oi, stop being stupid.”

“I’m not! I’m just… I don’t. I don’t remember what happened a few days ago, how you got hurt. I can’t--I don’t remember. But you--”

“Nope, _no_ , I don’t wanna’ hear you’re bullshit right now,” Killua murmured, turning his head to bump it against his. “And for the record, I don’t remember anything either.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. After we -- what did the old man call it again, cauterize? -- after we cauterized it, I don’t remember much.”

“What about before?”

“Hm? Nah, I can’t even remember what we were doing before the whole shit show.”

And Gon couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stifle the laugh that bubbled past his lips, vibrating deep in his chest and rattling Killua’s head with each inhale. He couldn’t help it, because for the first time in the past few days he was feeling light, feeling unbound by anything but elation at the fact that _they were okay._

“Oi, dumbass. Quit it.” Killua jabbed him with his elbow, glaring as he pointed at his stomach. “Rioleo doesn’t even know if these are strong enough to hold yet. He put me on fucking _bedrest.”_

“I think that’s a good thing Killua.”

“Absolutely not. I’ve been laying here for days now. I think I’ve gained weight.”

“Killua!” Gon laughed, and pulled his ear.

. . .

Killua liked to complain. 

A lot.

He complained when Leorio came in to change his bandages and check his stitches, complained when Kurapika came in with more soup (Leorio declared that he couldn’t eat anything solid until he knew the stitches would be strong enough to hold while Killua moved around). He complained when Gon was finally allowed to leave the apartment to get them both a change of clothes from their hotel.

He complained over everything.

No one took him seriously though, and everyone knew he didn’t mean half of the things he said.

Gon stayed when Leorio had to redo some of the stitching work around Killua’s ribs, and was there to try and distract him from the pain when it was clear that no (healthy) amount of sedatives would work. Killua boasted loudly about how he could handle it, how his pain tolerance was ‘totally epic’. 

But he could see how it affected him. When Leorio unwrapped the red-tinged bandages, and had to pluck out the broken seams from irritated, split skin (it was hard to watch. The flesh was mangled and red, a wet sheen around where the material of the stitches stretched and dug into his torn skin, pulling it together and making ripples in the twisted blisters. Gon didn’t look at it too hard, and neither did Killua.)

Killua grimaced, brows furrowing, the vein in his forehead becoming prominent. It hurt, he could tell. The flesh was too vulnerable, too soft and painful, even with Killua’s inhumane healing abilities, it was still mutilated, still too disfigured to _not_ hurt. And when Leorio had to prick new threads by making new holes because the previous ones in his skin tore and split, Killua clenched his teeth tight enough that his gums turned pale, his jaw becoming hard.

It hurt. Gon could tell.

So he talked.

He talked to Killua about Kurapika’s new fascination with mystery novels and how the hotel staff was charging them extra for being absent for so long (“It didn’t even make sense! What’re they losing if we don’t show up for a few days?”). He talked about his call with Alluka (“I didn’t tell her what happened, but I think her sister-intuition told her something was wrong. She promised to call again tomorrow.) 

He talked about how he talked to Nanika for a bit (“She learned Bisky’s name today! And she was so happy about it. I’m happy for her too.”)

He talked, and somewhere between the fourth and seventh stitch Killua’s fingers fumbled with the sheets beside his leg, clawing the fabric and bunching it together.

Gon kept talking, and didn’t mention anything when he slipped his hand closer and interlocked their fingers.

The squeeze of gratitude was more than enough.

. . .

“Killua! Oh my God, stop!”

“Mm, nah.”

If Gon could, he would very much smack Killua numerous times until the fact that he _had to be careful_ got through his thick skull. 

Apparently having to replace his stitches four times wasn’t enough of a warning.

“Okay, slow _down.”_

“ _Y_ _ou_ slow down.”

Absolute. Dumbass.

And all Gon could do was stand and watch, hand caressing his own face as he watched, half horrified and half bemused, as Killua tried yet again to run down the stairs.

This was getting out of hand.

He was good for the first few steps, only a small limp visible as he hopped down, but he was still slow, still unsteady. The way his right leg shook, an almost imperceivable tremble in the limb, or the way his balance faltered each time he leapt. Gon anticipated the fall before it happened, and managed to jump down in time to catch him when he fell.

With hands steadying him by the shoulder, Gon pushed him down to sit (slowly) on the step behind them, instantly lifting his shirt to check for any bleeding. Gingerly felt around his chest, stomach, his side, watching for any reaction to his touches.

He let out a breath when there was nothing.

“And you call _me_ stupid.” He grumbled under his breath, stepping back to glare at the other, hands perched on his hips. With Killua sitting, it gave him the perfect vantage point to look down at him with a sneer.

“That’s because you _are._ I would’ve caught myself, anyway.”

“Yeah _right._ You know what--” he threw his hands up, shaking his head in exasperation, “ _No._ Absolutely not. I’m done. _We_ are done.”

Killua chuckled, but didn’t make a move at getting back up. Because fortunately, Killua had enough brain cells to realize that he did not, in fact, want new stitches.

Or maybe he really was that tired.

(It showed in the slump of his shoulders, the longer exhales.)

“You okay?”

“Totally.”

“Not.”

“Don’t make me laugh!” Killua snapped a hand to his mouth to stop his smile, the other waving him off hurriedly. “It feels the _worst_.”

“At least you _admit_ it, dumb dumb.”

“You did not just call me that.”

Gon was grateful for many things. He may not realize it most of the time, but his life has been no stranger to good fortune. Sometimes he forgets to count his blessings, to realize that the amount of _good soft safe_ far outweighs the… the things that leave him wanting to do things that aren’t good.

He thinks now...now is one of those rare times he can sit back and count his blessings.

Killua’s rubbing idly at his stomach, where the stitches have been confirmed strong enough not to reopen. He had to go through the whole thing -- the fight, the _burn,_ the recovery -- all without medication, without something to ease his suffering.

He knows that later Killua will boast about it, will proudly exclaim how he came back from the brink of death without a single painkiller. But for now he is vulnerable, for now he is not strong and cannot stand tall without flinching.

But he is here, and he is alive and breathing and giving Gon a small smile because laughing hurts his chest. And though Killua’s been through things Gon could only imagine from the darkest parts of his mind, he knows that Killua would never want to associate something like laughing with pain. 

And this fond warmth, this familiar fuzzy breath inside his chest that makes his heart match an ocean tempo, makes his blood flow slowly in content.

He’ll never get bored of it, and will probably never get used to it. 

(And he’ll always always always cherish it.)

He’s a man of action, has been told that he’s a boy who is in constant motion, shows what he’s feeling through tangible things like skin-to-skin touches and words that come from the heart (heavy enough to feel real between their hands).

Right now words seem inadequate to explain this ocean tempo behind his ribs, so he wordlessly allows his body to explain. Let’s himself walk up to Killua, who is still sitting on the stairs. Let’s himself come close enough that his arms wrap easily around Killua’s neck, letting himself fold over this head full of rough white hair and underwater ocean eyes.

And Killua chuckles in his chest, raises the arm opposite to the jagged diagonal line across his front to grip his back.

“You. Are. So. Dumb.” He says with each rock of their bodies, pressing his cheek to Killua’s crown. It’s familiar, and it’s warm.

“Hmm, takes someone dumb to know someone dumb.” He replies in Gon’s sweater, and the vibrations of his voice resonate deep into his body, reverberating against his spine.

“Mhmm?” _Thank you._

“Mm, yeah.” _Thank_ you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i took a crash course for first aid training, but that was a year ago. SO PLEASE DON'T ACTUALLY USE THIS STUFF AS REFERENCE for things like this irl. please never cauterize your wounds using electricity. that is a terrible idea. please don't jump down the stairs if you have stitches around your vital organs. that is an equally terrible idea.  
> hit me with a stick on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/iooiu)

**Author's Note:**

> dont look at me dude


End file.
